Four-five
by geenajay
Summary: Sam stared at the documents in his hands: the ones that meant he was literally holding his brother's life in them. Because Dean wasn't his brother. Instead he had been John's slave. And now he belonged to Sam. Disclaimer: I do not own or am connected in any way with Supernatural. I just love having fun playing with the characters.
1. Chapter 1

A NEW AMENDMENT

The year was 1865, and the 13th Amendment to the Constitution finally brought slavery in the United States to an end. And the people rejoiced. Well, most people. The slave owner's, whether they were the fortunate ones to have received compensation for their loss or not, didn't. For they could see their profits plummeting and envisage the end of their way of life.

So slavery went 'underground'. Hidden and whispered of behind locked cellar doors or remote and barely accessible plantations where visitors were discouraged, or in the more urban areas, large plain buildings with few or no windows and only one small entrance.

And the majority of the people forgot.

Occasionally they would be reminded: every once in a while, one or two of the forgotten, because that's who the slaves now were, would escape, only to see their stories be shouted down as lies. Occasionally a few at once would be discovered in their enforced squalor and rescued, but general opinion was that had to be just the work of a sociopathic individual. It _couldn't_ be something organised by many for the purposes of business, for slavery just _didn't_ exist anymore. Not in this country. Because it had been abolished.

But as over the years more and more stories began to emerge, and as what could once have been dismissed as rumours began to resonate as knowledge and fact, backed up with proof of human beings living appallingly short lives in horrendous conditions and dealing with brutality on a daily basis, then slowly, finally, did the public began to mutter and mumble, and the mumble grew into a rumbling, and the rumbling turned into an outcry.

But this time the government could see that slavery would not be an easy thing to strike down. And the way of life of the country as a whole would not be an easy thing to forsake. The politicians recognised that the ease of the many rested on the bleeding and broken backs of the few. And that perhaps, if it would ensure prices being held down while maintaining a high profit, then perhaps allowances might be made, for the greater good of the majority.

And so finally in 1890 there was a repeal of the 13th Amendment. One that gave the States the power to regulate the transportation or importation of _voluntary_ servitude. Nobody could be _born_ into slavery. Or be forced into it against their will. But they could _sell_ themselves into it.

But not just to anyone. It had to be done correctly. It had to be properly regulated.

With that consideration, a set amount of Auction Houses were set up and granted licenses to trade, and they were the _only_ way to enter the system as a slave. It was the Houses that decided how much someone could sell their life for and authorised payment; they were responsible for creating and registering the required Deeds of Sale and other associated documents necessary for owning a slave; it was the Houses who filled in the forms to have the required tattoos put on, and later the microchips inserted into, the slaves; it was them who took responsibility for arranging and holding the auctions and making sure that all owners were registered with their new possessions; it was them who meticulously made the system run smoothly. The Houses were under tight regulation and they made sure their job was done professionally and responsibly, with all medical examinations of the property within the clearly defined limits of the Amendment done and recorded, all paperwork done and filed correctly in triplicate. Some remained small, localised and independent: others became vast and extremely wealthy institutions.

There were set rules for the new owners. They had to guarantee fair treatment for their slaves: there was to be no excessive punishment upon penance of vast fines and possible imprisonment for themselves; their slaves had to be fed regularly, at least once a day, with decent food fit for human consumption; they had to be housed somewhere safe, dry and warm; and at least once every five years the slave had to be brought for medical examination by a designated licensed official. Simply put: they were to be treated humanely.

There was some protection for the slaves should they be unlucky enough to get an owner who was overtly violent or abusive. If an owner could be proved to be using excessive, exceptional and unnecessary violence, force or cruelty towards a slave, then they could be tried in law with the possibility of imprisonment, and an up-to a lifetime ban of owning slaves. Or be handed a large fine.

There was protection for the owners as well of course. If a slave should kill or seriously injure his or her owner then the law would immediately be upon them with extreme prejudice and the consequence was an almost immediate death sentence as a deterrent for any others. Although if a slave gave themselves up without any form of resistance _at once_ to a registered medical official in the service of the government, or alternatively to an officer of the law, and prove that they had been treated with disproportionate brutality then they might get leniency and instead of a _death_ sentence, only get a _life_ sentence in prison. This was a very rare occurrence, only recorded in a handful of cases, (and poured over by students of law).

No slave could marry. Period. If a slave had a child with a free man or woman then that child was the sole legal responsibility of the free parent: the slave parent had no rights. If two slaves had a child together, then it was considered advisable that they get the child legally adopted by a third party as neither would have any rights to the child. And neither would the child have any rights as officially they would not even exist. And never would if not adopted.

If a master/mistress died then their beneficiary had seven days to re-register their slave in their own name or call the nearest Auction House and have them returned into the system. If they weren't registered in the designated time, then an alert would be triggered, the authorities would get involved and the slave immediately brought in by force if necessary. This was either because the beneficiary didn't want the slave, or there _was_ no beneficiary. It was advisable for the slave therefore to hand themselves in immediately or be treated as a runaway, which was a very serious crime punishable by up-to and including a death sentence. At the re-registration, all slaves had to have a full medical examination to prove that they had been treated well enough and they were also given the chance to ask to be taken back into the main system again, the rights of a beneficiary to _claim_ a slave being nowhere near the importance of physically _buying_ a slave in the eyes of the law. It was possibly the only situation where a slave could refuse to go with a new owner.

Once in the system a slave could buy themselves back out. But it was a long and complicated process set out in the Amendment that included compensating first their current owner for the price paid for them as well as out of pocket expenses that could stretch over years, then the original Auction House for all their administration as well as their original cost, and finally the government itself for all _its_ administration. It was very rare for a slave to escape the system once he or she had agreed to enter it. Freedom could not be granted by anyone, it had to be bought.

Slaves could own items gifted to them by their masters, up-to and including property. What an owner gave a slave was his or hers own business. But it all had to be registered correctly against the slave's information in case the slave find him or herself accused of being a thief, a crime punishable by up-to and including a death sentence, and the items or property confiscated by the government.

So it was decreed.

And to just about everyone but the politicians' and those who had applied to run the Auction Houses' surprise, there _was_ a steady stream of those willing to sell their lives away. Especially after the Panic of 1893. There were those who needed the money for their families and were willing to do anything to get it for them; those who had absolutely nothing so were grateful for a roof over their heads and a daily ration of something edible; some who had lost someone or everything and just wanted to forget; and those who had just given up. The old slave owners had a new supply of bodies to do the least pleasant and most necessary jobs. Everyone was satisfied.

Then as always in such things, loopholes began to be exploited and legal waters began to get murkied. Minors had no rights until they were twenty-one years old, (from 1971 eighteen years old), so a legally recognised relative could 'give' their consent for them to be sold _for_ them. And unfortunately many did, selling one or more of their children to try and provide for the rest; selling an unwanted step-daughter or son out of the way; bargaining a child's freedom away often only for the price of a month's supply of whatever addiction the parent had. And this gave such a good supply of young and strong able bodies that nobody in the intervening years had felt the need to challenge it.

Of the owners, most were good and treated their slaves fairly. But there were the exceptions: those who enjoyed having the power of possession over another human being, those who sadistically enjoyed handing out punishments of extreme force or brutality and didn't care about the possible consequences; those who would use bribes or extortion to avoid the regulations; those who had enough power or influence that 'eyes were averted' from their, often open, mistreatment; a few who simply didn't care.

There was no such thing as a legal sex slave, it being seen as immoral and abhorrent from every point of view: slaves could only be sold to do a job of work, usually for a cheaper cost than a paid worker or one that most others would not want to do, or to be treated as a part, or pet, of a family. But tattoos could be removed, microchips cut out. And if a slave happened to be declared 'dead in an unfortunate circumstance', no proof or even a _body_ required, then they could simply be slipped through the cracks in the system and never be seen in public again.

There were those who fought slavery of course, those who rallied and petitioned and protested. But most prided themselves on their innocence, counted their blessings, enjoyed the spoils from the new government sanctioned voluntary servitude, and managed to forget that such a thing actually existed.


	2. John and Mary

John and Mary

John was on his way back to his house. But he didn't want to be. Because it didn't feel like _home_. He would and usually did do anything to avoid going there. After work drinks or three with the boys; late nights doing overtime that didn't actually involve much working; drinks on his own for the hell of it. Anything to avoid going home.

It hadn't been the happy marriage that he had expected. They had had a whirlwind romance, almost cliché: everything was perfect, he and Mary had declared their undying and desperate love for each other, refused to heed any and all warnings about 'why so fast?', and gotten married.

Only to realise, almost as soon as the first night was over, that they had absolutely nothing in common. Tastes, hobbies, idealisms, hopes, dreams: nothing. Sometimes John wondered about it with incredulity: what had he actually _seen_ in Mary? He wasn't even sure that he _lusted_ her, let alone loved her. Had it not been his life, his _real_ life, he would have snorted at the circumstance of their romance as being as unrealistic as a fairytale, with him at least, if not both of them, as being under a spell of the most controlled and evil kind.

The only good thing was that Mary had immediately gotten pregnant, and that at least gave them both something to focus on, something to have in common. That baby boy, and it _was_ a boy, he felt _sure_ it was a boy: that baby boy held both their hopes and dreams and would give them a strong base as a family. But it had turned out that the foundations were as shaky as he had too belatedly realised, as, precisely on the last day of the second trimester, Mary had begun to bleed and the loss of the tiny life had taken with it everything else.

His wife had blamed herself for the child only surviving for exactly six months, and, although John tried not to, he blamed her too. They had both mourned the loss of their son, for Mary had also been sure the child was a boy and she was desperately upset for the loss of her 'angel'. And what shared future they might have had; what combination of dreams they might have had, disintegrated to dust in between their tearful blinks and left them both miserable, unable to talk properly to each other, drowning in their own individual grief.

Which was why he didn't want to go home. Because his wife would be there. But only physically as her mind, even three years later, was still devoted to thoughts of wherever their son had gone. But he supposed he had to, although he had so often felt so much like just driving past and away and never returning.

With a sigh he opened the front door. He could hear the little sobs, the low sniffles. Again. And suddenly he couldn't take it anymore.

"Come on, let's go for a drive."

And to his surprise, she blew her nose and agreed.

John didn't know where they were going. But they went. Eventually they found themselves following a steady stream of cars: to where, they had no idea. But they followed them anyway and eventually found themselves parking in a rough field outside a weathered old barn that had a sign on it.

'SLAVE AUCTION TONIGHT.'

Mary hissed: "These things should be banned. Disgusting."

John nodded, but they were trapped against the tide of cars pulling in through the gate. Just for something to say out loud, he murmured: "To be fair, I've never even been to one."

"Actually, me neither." His wife admitted.

So somehow they were getting out of the car and joining the murmuring throng crowding into the smelly old barn to see the viewing pens.

It was obvious from some of the comments around them that there was a definite mixture of humanity there for that evening's transactions. Some like them, disgusted but drawn in like moths to an open flame. Others eyeing the lots with practised eyes, picking out the perfect, and hopefully cheapest, prize. Some there out of pity, hoping perhaps to be good Samaritans and rescue the helpless. Men and women in suits, from big businesses, wanting strong bodies for a forced workforce. Others, smartly dressed, reason for being there unobvious.

And in the pens were the slaves: men and women, mostly dressed in ragged old clothing. But all dressed as there was no such thing as a legal sex slave trade. Some young and still fit, others in later life and worn out, sold on as their usefulness to their previous masters and mistresses ended. A few still hopeful of finding a good life even as a slave: most sullen with sunken eyes and overcome with despair.

John felt Mary take his hand as they wandered the pens. He understood and held hers tight: no matter how badly things were going for them, at least what they had was better than _this_. Nobody deserved _this_. What could have driven these poor souls to choose this?

They had all but had enough, couldn't stomach any more, when they found themselves beside the smallest temporary pen right at the rear of the barn. John half recognised the elderly couple standing on the opposite side of it: they had been the subject of a lot of local rumours since not only were they newcomers to their small town, but also as they were obviously both in their late fifties or perhaps early sixties yet had a little daughter who had just started at school with the son of one of John's friends.

John and Mary could see the excitement in both of their eyes as they studied the occupants inside the metal barriers. It was human instinct to look and see what had caught their attention. Both caught their breath as they saw.

There were five children in the cage. Five _young_ children.

"Oh John." He could almost _hear_ his wife's heart through the air, it had suddenly begun to pump so loud and so fast in her chest. Or was that just his own?

The five were raggedy and thin. They huddled together in the furthest corner away from the noise and interested eyes examining them as nothing more than commodities. There were two older ones, both boys, each perhaps five or six years old. One little girl: she could have two or three years old although it was hard to tell because she was so unnaturally small. There was a curly haired little one who was barely past the toddler stage, still plump from that stage of his life. And although they all must have been terrified of what was happening around them, and all had marks on them that looked suspiciously, in even that dim light, like bruises from fists, they were all being kept calm by the fifth child.

It was this one that both the Winchester's had instantly been drawn to. He was small. Smaller than the other two boys, probably no older than the girl whose small body he had his arm protectively around. The toddler was lying clumsily half across his lap, managing to sleep away the horror of the auction due to the security and sense of protection that that other was somehow managing to convey as he absently rubbed his back. The watching adults could hear his whispered murmurs to the other children: "It'll be 'kay. We'll find all of us 'gain. We'll do it. You'll see."

Sensing the interest of the adults he looked up and straight at them: John caught his breath as the boy's eyes glittered in the harsh lighting and revealed them to be green: a soft meadow-sweet green that precisely matched the colour of Mary's. The child somehow had a look of her about him as well as he stared at them defiantly and turned away in obvious disdain. 'I know why you're here' the look managed to convey: 'are you proud of yourselves?'

As the other children also became aware of the gathering would-be buyers around them, they huddled in closer to each other and clung together, and to the boy in the middle, in desperation. And somehow despite the baby hampering his movements, he managed to get his arms around them all, his mental strength and courage already shining through for one so young. "We'll be 'kay. We knew this was comin'. We'll be 'kay."

"Look Sarah. She could be a good sister for our Jenny."

John was roused from his rapt focus on the small green-eyed boy as he half-heard the whispers of the elderly couple that were now standing beside them. He couldn't help feeling guilty about listening to all the gossip despite never having met them before. "Can I just…. I'm sorry, but….is this where your daughter came from as well?"

The older woman drew herself up straight and gave him a withering look: "Just because they're slaves doesn't mean they have to be denied a good life! Just because their _natural_ families have let them down, doesn't mean that's the way their life has to stay."

"No! No." He hastily agreed. "I just meant… I think it's wonderful. I really hope you can help at least one of them. They don't deserve _this_." He gestured at the enclosure.

The couple glanced at each other and shyly smiled. "We're considered too old to adopt." the woman leant forward and confided. "We tried. For so long. Were promised and then let down and then, sorry, too old. Then we suddenly realised that, this way, at least we could help. Even if it's just one or two. To get them out of this…" Her voice trailed off as she again watched the small girl as the child sniffled and huddled even more into the tight arms of John's boy.

Why had he just thought of him as _his_ boy? John caught his breath as he realised what he had just done and glanced at Mary. He knew immediately that she had the same thought echoing in her eyes. And another glance at the children revealed that the boy was also watching _them_ closely as if trying to work out the non-verbal communication between them.

And for the first time in a long time, he smiled a genuine smile at his wife and she returned it. Were they really going to do this? But….just how much would a small boy cost?

Mary was pulling at the sleeve of one of the traders. "Excuse me. If we want to bid, how do we go about it?"

"Just register at the table there, ma'am. They'll take your details and give you a bidder ID. If you're successful, you've got until 5pm tomorrow to pay. Only then can you collect their papers, register your ownership and take them, but our team will help you with that if you've never done it before."

"Thankyou. And can you tell us about the small boy in the middle there. How old is he?"

The man glanced at the group with a smirk. "Four-five? Handful that one! Took us months to teach him to kneel respectfully the way most masters expect: the little shit will rather take the blows than do as he's told." His expression softened suddenly and unexpectedly. "But he gets under your skin. Good with the others, just look at him, even though he's one of the smallest we've ever had. Not many kids are sold into slavery, I'm glad to say. Not through us anyway. I doubt the boss would get rid of him if he had a choice but his wife's insisting." He shook his head at himself. "Doesn't do to get too attached. That answered your question, ma'am?"

"How old is he?"

"Not sure." He looked at his list. "According to this, he's nearly three. The end of next month. Twenty-fourth if his mum was to be believed."

His duty done, he wandered away to deal with other bidders not noticing the effect his words had had on Mary and John. Twenty-fourth January! The due date of the child they had lost. The very day of the very year!

"Do you believe in fate?" Mary whispered.

"I did when I met you and somehow I forgot it again. But now…" And with that, it was decided.

By the end of that evening, he belonged to them. Or at least, he would as long as they could raise the payment for him. To both their surprise, and rising desperate panic, the price had gone far higher than either had expected. It not only meant the loss of all of their savings, but they would have to go to the bank first thing and ask for a loan. Or beg and borrow from everyone that they knew. But somehow they knew they would get it. Somehow he was meant to be theirs.

"It's because of his caring nature, they _all_ want him as a son." Mary whispered to her husband with tears of joy. "But he's _ours_ , John. He's _ours_!"

But John had been watching the interested eyes around the pen. He had studied the faces of the other bidders, noted their expressions when they had watched his boy, was aware of the predatory licking of their lips. It wasn't only because of his striking green eyes: it was because the boy himself was already beautiful, and the auction house worker's description of him as stubborn and defiant to all the enquirers, and there were _many_ enquirers about him, certainly would have helped to tick a lot of boxes that had a dominatory-inclination. John felt his stomach heave at the thought of the life his boy might have had. Might still have if they couldn't raise the payment for him in time.

He had been the last of the children to be sold and was obviously the one who had attracted the most interest, which was lucky for the elderly couple as they had managed to purchase their second little daughter for not too high a price.

The toddler had been purposely woken up and, to the accompaniment of much derisive laughter and insults aimed at the staff, had promptly screamed the barn down proving he had a fantastic pair of lungs. The auction staff had eventually given up and called the little blonde green-eyed boy into the ring to come and comfort him, which he had managed to within a few minutes, holding the baby tight and whispering soothing words into his ear until he had settled back to a sniffly, snotty sleep in his arms. It was all he could do to carry the child out again, but he wouldn't give in or let go until he and his heavy, half-his-size charge were safely out of that fishbowl arena with all its watching eyes.

There were only a couple of small bids for the baby: after all he was so young that he would mean a lot of hassle and expense. But when it was all over, both John and Mary were thrilled to see that his buyers had been the same couple who had bought the little girl. At least _they_ would be together. Even as the man paid for them, the woman knelt down to _their_ little boy and whispered to him a promise to look after them both and give them a good life. Even John's eyes watered as the green eyes shone with relief and hope.

The two older boys had both been brought by a business man in a suit. They would be on their way to a factory somewhere. John hoped that it would be one of the better ones that followed safety legislations and looked after the worker's needs. He did a quick calculation and realised that their boy had cost as much as the other four put together. And more than all but the strongest youngest adults.

They managed to get the rest of the money from the bank. Neither wanted anyone else to know what it was really for so they had to tell a lot of little white lies. And a few outright big ones. And they had decided during a long excited conservation that had lasted most of the intervening night that they should move somewhere else where they weren't known, preferably to a house they could better afford so they could pay the debt off as quickly as possible. One that could properly be a family home. Lawrence seemed a good place to start looking.

But all that could wait until after Christmas for they had a _son_ to pick up.

He was on his own in the pen when they returned. He had obviously spent the night in it alone. There was just one thin blanket to give him warmth, no sign of food, he had nothing but the clothes he was wearing, the same ones he had had on the previous evening. Once sold, the slave traders had no more responsibility towards him. He had spent the night alone in a pen in an old barn in December. But he stood straight and stubbornly proud to watch as they walked back through the entrance, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

It went through John's head that, despite the boy's age, he not only fully understood what was happening to him, but he had been watching _them_ the previous night as they had bought him and was waiting for them.

"Four-five! What should you be doing?"

Both John and Mary stared at their boy as he reluctantly obeyed the trader and knelt where he stood, sitting up on his heels so he could still see through the horizontal bars, his hands resting on the sides of his thighs.

"It's okay, boy. We won't hurt you." John tried to convey the truth of his words by keeping his tone gentle. But Mary was already climbing over the bars and throwing her arms around their child with a larger smile than John could ever remember seeing on her face even _before_ their marriage.

"We've bought you! You're safe now. We're going to be your mom and dad!" And with those words, she was picking him up in a tight unbreakable hug, carrying him back over the bars and heading for their car without a backwards glance at anyone.

"Here'ya sir." And John was being handed his receipt and bill of sale, the newly amended deeds that he had signed and now showed him to be the boy's new owner, and the required medical documents that by law meant that any slave for sale had to be examined by a government licensed medical official and any health issues be recorded along with any identifying marks of both natural and deliberately caused origins.

He also was given the child's dog tag that would have to be kept with the paperwork and gave his identification number from that particular auction house: 451140. Although his _full_ slave number stored in the national archive of slave records would probably be seven or even eight digits long, and both of them would be recorded on the microchip surgically inserted in beneath his spinal cord as well as on the small tattoo beneath one of his arm pits.

"They're putting all your details in to the computer system now sir, so, if he's picked up anywhere that he shouldn't be he will be returned directly to you."

"You expecting him to run away?"

The trader paused, looked across at his wife, then turned his body enough to say his next words directly to John without any chance of them being overheard or interpreted by anyone watching.

"I'm the owner of this auction house, sir. And given my choice, I would have kept Four-five. He can be sweet, if you get my drift. Especially when I promised to make sure that his friends were sold to a reputable firm: you probably didn't notice some of the other would-be buyers complaining that I'd not seen their bids in time. But no, instead they're going to a good ranch in Texas: they'll be treated hard but fair, have schooling, good meals, they'll be okay. And the two little ones? Well, I saw that couple and their 'daughter' around the town when I fetched some supplies yesterday. Recognised the little girl from when I sold her last year. She looks good, happy. I deliberately ignored one of the farmers who wanted her; why _he_ would want a little girl..."

"How do you mean, sweet?" it was the only word that John had really heard.

"Sweet enough that my wife warned me to get rid or else! Something about that one, his head's far older than his body somehow. And he's quick. Don't let him fool you, he don't miss nuttin' and he's a good little actor. And stubborn as shit.

No." He finally returned to the first question. "I'm not expecting him to run away. But he attracted a lot of interest in the sale. And last year, I got offers for him when he _wasn't_ one of the lots. _Good_ offers! And some of the buyers tonight: they don't usually come to small sales like mine. You might have outbid them, sir, but not all like to lose. That's just my advice, sir."

And with a smile he was walking away to see to the final few owners waiting to take their purchases. John stared after him, then walked across to join his wife and their new son who were both in the rear seat of the car.

"What we going to name him: he can't be Four-five!?"

Mary looked at him flirtaciously: for the first time in three years he felt his body respond without needing manipulation. "I was thinking, maybe 'Dean'? That's what I was hoping to name..."

John grunted. "Dean is good. You okay with that, boy?"

The green eyes stared into his through the rear-view mirror, then the child nodded with a small smile.

"Dean it is, then."

So they took him home, kept him a secret at first in their old house but proclaimed him proudly as their son once they had moved to Lawrence. And settled into life as a family, although it took some time to convince the boy to _not_ kneel every time John entered the room.

It was obvious that he loved Mary immediately from that first moment she had hugged him in the dirty enclosure. And she him: they somehow had formed a bond that couldn't have been closer if they were naturally mother and son.

Too close of a bond. He would follow Mary everywhere if he were allowed and she would have to chase him out of the house to go and make friends with the local children. So close a bond that John never fully felt part of it, never got to feel that Dean was properly _his_. And while he had hoped that it would repair their marriage, it hadn't. The purchase of the boy had repaired his _wife_ and he was glad to see her happy, but there was still something missing in their relationship. If he were honest with himself, he still couldn't see why he had married her.

He could understand it from the boy's side in a way: sometimes in unguarded moments, which on one so young were worryingly few, he would catch the little boy's eyes shining and know he was thinking of another set of faces. Of another family formed naturally through blood. And whether he had been loved or treated well by them made no difference: that was where his heart called him to be.

Not to be at the auction house or the life he had had there. No, that was why he _was_ so good and obedient, why he tried so hard to be the perfect son. However much he loved Mary, however much he tried to love John, he knew he had to be good. And he had to be good because, always, _always_ , at the back of his mind would be the doubt that if he messed up, he might be returned as unwanted.

So John gradually went back to staying out for late night drinks after work, or just not returning for a day or two, or three, because he knew that Mary would be alright as she had _Dean_. _Her_ Dean.

That's not to say that occasionally life wasn't good. And it was in one of those brief spells that another baby was conceived, and as they were both so desperate not to lose this one John became fine with Dean constantly being at his wife's side, ready and willing to assist with everything.

If they could have this son, because again, he _knew_ it was a boy, then perhaps everything might be complete. He could be a _real_ father to this _real_ son, and life would get better for the Winchester's. He was sure of it.


	3. it's All been A Lie

IT'S ALL BEEN A LIE

Sam Winchester stared at the paperwork in his hands. He just couldn't take it in, couldn't take _any_ of it in. Twenty fours ago, just twenty four hours ago, his life had been so different. _Everything_ had been so different. He just couldn't take it in, couldn't even begin to compute it. How could this be? Where could he even _start_ to deal with this? How could he _possibly_ deal with this? How could he possibly be _expected_ to deal with this?

He stared blankly at the papers in his hands. This was impossible. It was _impossible_. How could this be? This had to be wrong; a mistake; a really, really sick joke. What sort of joke was this? But a glance at his brother's face told him that this was no joke. So it had to be a mistake. It had to be. Otherwise... He couldn't deal with this. There was no _way_ he could deal with this. Not after the last twenty four hours.

Twenty four hours ago he had had a father and a brother. A brother lying in a hospital bed with his internal organs all but ripped apart inside him. A brother whose soul was trying desperately to hide from a reaper. Because he was dying, Sam's brother was dying.

Twenty four hours ago, he had been praying for Dean to survive. For a miracle. For anything that wouldn't take his loud, annoying, beloved beautiful big brother from him.

And twenty four hours ago he had been fighting with his father, a father who had been more concerned with finally getting revenge on the thing that had killed Sam's mother and girlfriend than he had in staying beside his eldest's son bedside as he lost the battle against death.

Or at least Sam had thought his father hadn't been concerned about Dean.

Not until his brother's injuries, horrific unnatural injuries, had suddenly and mysteriously repaired themselves and he had opened his eyes to smile at Sam. Only for them both to break down and cry a few minutes later when their father's body had been found in another room. Attempts of resuscitation by the emergency team had been futile. But Sam had immediately known that: the coincidence had been too strong. One life had been used as payment for another.

And he had never felt such grief in all his life.

And he had never felt such shame.

Because his immediate reaction, and he didn't even want to admit it to himself, was a surge of relief that it _had_ been his father. Because if he had had to choose between the only two members of his family that he had left, then he would have chosen to keep his brother without hesitation; he would have clung tightly to Dean every time.

Even if he had known it would have meant losing his father, he knew he couldn't lose Dean. The pain of watching him in that hospital bed had been worse than anything that Sam had ever known. It had even knocked the pain of losing Jess into second place. And losing his father came a distant third.

But this? He didn't know how to deal with this!

He stared at the paperwork again. He still couldn't take it in. How could this be?

He turned in his seat in Bobby's small kitchen and looked at Dean who had been watching him anxiously since he had shown him the papers that he now had scrunched in his large hand. Sam had never seen Dean so anxious before. Well, he quickly corrected himself, that wasn't quite true: Dean had been anxious ever since he had come to find his younger brother after their father had gone missing. For the first time Sam properly realised why.

And John hadn't been _their_ father. He had been _Sam's_ father.

Because Dean _wasn't_ his brother. He was a slave. A legally bought slave. Bought as a child. Rescued by his parents. No. Rescued by _Sam's_ parents from a life that would probably have been unbelievably cruel and horrific. But he was a slave nevertheless.

And the paperwork that Sam now held was literally Dean's life in his hands.

Because, on the death of a master, his or her beneficiary had just seven days to register their claim on the now ownerless slave before the authorities would, without any doubt or leeway whatsoever, send bounty hunters to forcibly retrieve the slave and throw them back to the nearest Auction House to be sold on in the next sale.

So Sam stared at the paperwork in his hand. The paperwork that Dean had hesitated to bring to him from where their, no, _Sam's,_ father had left it stored away safely at Bobby's in case of need. But he had brought it to him as he needed Sam to know. He needed him to decide what he was going to do about it.

If anything.

Because Sam now only had six days left to decide whether to sign to take ownership of the very existence of his brother.

Or not.

So he stared at the paperwork in his hand. While his brother. No. While his _slave_ knelt anxiously at his feet and watched his lack of comprehension at the events of the last twenty four hours.

"Sam?"

He couldn't believe the complete change in Dean's voice. How worried, and _scared_ he sounded. How afraid he was of what would happen if Sam didn't sign those papers in time.

"I... Please... I have to ... It's important that you decide quickly. 'Cos the nearest regional registration office is a full day's drive away... I." Dean stopped talking suddenly. Sam watched as his face turned white and his expression filled with fear as the thought struck and sunk deep into his soul.

"Unless you don't want to keep me? Sam, do you not _want_ to keep me?"


	4. The Order Given

THE ORDER GIVEN

Dean sat on the steps outside Bobby's house with his head in his hands. He had dreaded this day. Dreaded it for years. John had given him strict instructions to never tell Sam the truth until he had no choice, but... Well, that was great for John because he would be _dead._

 _John_ wouldn't have to _face_ Sam. Wouldn't have to _tell_ Sam. Wouldn't have to _ask_ Sam. Wouldn't have to _beg_ Sam.

But perhaps Dean wouldn't even bother begging. He could still see his brother's face from just a little while ago and okay, so Dean hadn't known how to tell him or even where to start, and he had probably messed the whole thing up like he usually did by just giving him the paperwork to look through because if there was one thing that Sammy was good at, it was looking through paperwork. But... His expression when he had realised what he was looking at... There had been no surprise; no questions; no anger at Dean for keeping this a secret: he had had no emotion at all that Dean could see. He had just looked at the papers and looked at Dean, and looked at the paperwork some more. All without a flicker of anything. All without saying a single word.

So perhaps he _didn't_ want to keep Dean.

And Dean supposed he couldn't blame him for that. Sam was clever. He could go back to College. He was _determined_ to go back to College. He _should_ go back to College. And in no way would having a slave be anything but a burden if he did. Of _course_ he wasn't even considering keeping Dean.

Dean was being stupid. Possibly, p _robably_ , John hadn't even intended for him to _ever_ tell Sam the truth. Perhaps he had just meant for Dean to simply collect his paperwork and return to the nearest Auction House, and just quietly vanish out of Sam's life. It would have helped if he had _told_ Dean that. It was probably the only thing that he _didn't_ give Dean clear instructions on, about what to do when John died.

Perhaps he had intended to. But he had died before he could have.

He had died. John had died. The man that Dean had thought of as his dad had just died. He would _always_ think of him as his dad. And Dean was being selfish, worrying about himself. No wonder Sam was looking at him so blankly. For it was _him_ who _really_ had just lost his dad. It had been _Sam's_ dad who had just died, and the only response that Dean had had was to present him with the paperwork that proved he was a nothing. Hell, he hadn't even tried once to contact Dean when he had gone away and that was when he thought he had been his _brother_. God, Dean had just _really_ messed this up.

He should just go.

That's what he should do: he should just slip away somewhere out of the way for the rest of the day, wait until tonight then return to retrieve the paperwork, _his_ paperwork, and walk until he could cadge a lift to Pierre and hand himself into the City Hall there. Yeah, that's what he was going to do.

But.

But if he did that, then how would he manage to keep protecting Sam? That had been his job, his reason for being allowed to stay with John, for being so well taken care of by him. And in that last few minutes that he had seen his dad, (because Dean had called John 'dad'for over twenty years and that was going to be a hard habit to break), that very last time when his dad had slipped into the hospital room and stood by his bedside while the doctors were still scratching their heads, mystified by his sudden miraculous recovery. Before he had put two and two together and realised that he owed John far more than the original price of his life. When his dad had stood by his bedside and looked at him with such an unusual expression on his face that Dean had never seen before from him: almost a mixture of love and pride. Although Dean knew that that couldn't have been for _him_ : John must surely have been thinking about Sammy.

And then he had whispered his last ever order to Dean. The order that, if it were necessary and if there was _no_ other way, that Dean was to kill Sam. And to be as 'careful as possible not to get caught, boy'. Because, ironically, a slave could be as murderously inclined as any free man or woman and get treated the same by the law, but if they should kill their own _master_ then that was as near to an immediate death sentence to get as was possible. And that's what John had ordered Dean to do: if it became necessary.

So.

Dean frowned. So dad, John, _must_ have been expecting him to stay with Sam. Or at least try to. Because he would not be able to have a chance of obeying that order if he was returned to the slave auctions. Even though he really didn't want to obey it. So... Perhaps he _had_ been correct to give Sam the deeds. Although probably he should have waited a couple of days. Tried to bring up the subject some other way.

Dean sighed and scrubbed at his face with his hands. But he felt slightly relieved: John must have been wanting him to stay with Sam, or he would have never given him that final order. So that was what Dean had to try his best to do. Fight to stay with Sam even if the young man didn't want him, and hope with all his heart that it never became necessary enough to kill him.

He was startled by a loud explosion of sound from the interior of the house.

"You gotta be _shittin_ ' me! He's a _slave_!?" It was Bobby's raised voice.

Dean sighed. Obviously Sam had managed to break his silence to talk to _him_. He didn't know what to do so he just stayed where he was.

It was a few minutes before the door opened and the elderly man appeared in the frame, looking out into the brightness of the afternoon sun. He appeared relieved to see Dean sitting there, as if he had been worried that he would be nowhere in sight. Carefully he approached and sat slightly heavily beside Dean on the steps.

"Sam's just told me. You okay, boy?"

His tone was low and cautious. Dean didn't know what to do or say, so he did neither.

"If I'd known, then... I don't know, boy. Perhaps I could have adopted you or something? Got you out of the system."

Dean stared at him, not sure if he was being serious or not. But he really appeared to be. "Bobby. You couldn't have adopted me. A slave is a slave. Nothing more. Never allowed to be anything more. You'd have got in trouble if you'd tried. But... Thanks. Thanks for thinking of it." These last words were said in little more than an embarrassed mumble.

Bobby huffed. "We'd have found a way, boy. Slavery! Makes me mad. Should never be. And you! We'd have found a way to hide you, Dean."

"I know you'd have tried, Bobby. But they'd have been after you. Believe me."

The other man nodded and blinked back tears. They sat together in a long silence.

Bobby finally broke it. "So. What happens now? There's a time limit on being claimed by a relative of the ...deceased, isn't there?"

"Seven days from the moment of death."

"So, we've only got just over five whole days left now. And where have you got to be?"

"Preferably the big Auction House over in Minnesota. It's also the regional centre so they'll have a direct link to the computer systems in Washington. Pierre's City Hall might well lose the info in transit, and any delay, no matter what, will..."

"Will mean that you're forcibly removed from us."

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah."

"That's not going to happen, boy. Not on my watch. And your brother knows that as well. He's just completely stunned. So am I. He doesn't know what to do or think at the moment, but he will, don't you worry. He just needs a little time to get his head around it. But don't you go worrying yourself. You've both been through enough these last few days."

Despite himself Dean smiled at him. He loved this old man so much. "Thanks Bobby. Should I go and talk to him, do ya think? Or just..." He trailed off, uncertain of what to do.

"Just give him a while on his own, boy. Come and help me in the storeroom, I need some heavy boxes moving and I can't manage them by myself. That is. If you don't mind, boy."

"No sir." And Dean was up on his feet, glad to have something to do.


	5. In The Bar

IN THE BAR

They were still in the storeroom when Sam finally managed to get his thoughts straight enough to be able to even stand up. He felt like he had been physically knocked out by a sudden, completely unexpected blow that had struck right into the centre of his head. He had found himself unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything but stare blankly at those papers that Dean had so hesitantly asked him to look at. Bobby had had to almost prise them out of his hands to see what they were.

At College he and Jess had gone on rallies protesting against slavery. They had attended meetings calling for action to have it finally and permanently abolished, with no possibility for repeal this time. And all this time, his brother had been... _Dean_ had been one of the victims of that evil system. Still _was_ one of the victims of it. And his own _father_ had been one of the slave owners that Sam so detested.

Sam felt sick to his stomach. He had had some fights with his dad, but this? If he had known about this? He would have left years before.

And taken Dean with him.

All those years of watching his brother being spoken to like he was nothing: of watching him try to please their father and never succeeding; never being good enough; not fast enough; not capable enough; not training hard enough; not being _anything_ enough. Sam had _hated_ his father for how he had treated his brother. And he had gotten angry at Dean for not standing up for himself: shouted at him so many times that he shouldn't just blindly do what he was told, or try to please John because their dad was an ignorant son of a bitch, and why didn't Dean just walk out? Why was he so _stupid_ to just put up with it?

Because he didn't have a choice, Sam now realised. Because he had to take everything that John threw so unfairly at him. Because he was a slave. Still _is_ a slave. He wasn't his brother. He had _never_ been his brother. Just a slave.

Sam felt his legs wobble beneath him and he had to sit down again. He just couldn't believe it. He needed some air. He needed to get out of there. He didn't care to where.

With a sudden decision he folded the papers that he had all but crushed in his shaking hands, he had been holding them so hard, and put them safely into his jacket pocket. He couldn't bear to even think about them or look at them anymore, but he knew how important it was not to lose them. The deeds to his own _brother_. What the...? How screwed up was that? He had to get out of there.

It took all his effort to get out of the chair again and start walking. But once he had, he couldn't stop. He had to get out of there. Had to just go somewhere, _anywhere_ , and _think_. Think about this calmly before he started screaming and ranting about his _slave-owning_ father and what he had done. Because if he did that... well then, _John_ wouldn't hear him, _John_ wouldn't care what he said or thought. No, the only effect it would have is that it would be even more upsetting for Dean who had loved the man so much, would _always_ love the man so much, despite everything. And Sam couldn't bear the thought of distressing his brother any more than he already must be over the death of their dad. Because, no matter what, he would always be his dad. And he would _always_ be his brother. He didn't need to share blood to be his _brother_.

So he kept walking. He walked out of the house and into the yard full of old beat-up cars. Vaguely he noted movement that gave the clue as to where Bobby and his brother were, but he didn't want to see them. He didn't want to see Dean, in case he opened his big stupid mouth and overwhelmed him even more than he already had. He had seen Dean physically shaking as he had got up from his position on the floor beside him and silently left the room. Before that he had noticed his voice stuttering slightly as he had spoken those few words about having to register the claim before the time limit was reached.

Sam had read numerous cases of slave atrocities during his four years at Stanford. The barbarism of some of the cases that had come to trial, and the brutality and injuries inflicted on those who had been found without making it that far had taken his breath away. Tattoos cut off, microchips carved out. Often other mutilations so the body could never be traced to a number, and the number could never be traced to a name of an owner. The only crimes that came close to paralleling them in the 'free' world were the gruesome deeds of some of the worst serial killers, and there were plenty of documented instances of those where they had honed their taste for sadistic violence on helpless pets or slaves.

No wonder Dean was so afraid of being returned. Sam had never, _never_ , in all the years seen his big brother afraid for his own life. But he was terrified of this. Sam could see fear in his eyes as he had looked at him. Probably with very good reason. And there was no way in hell that Sam was going to risk upsetting him any further by stating aloud his own views of both slavery and of his goddam bastard, slave-loving, son of a bitch _father_.

So he turned and walked in the opposite direction. As far to the end of the cluttered yard as he could, until he had nearly cleared the piles of rust-buckets and could see the dry and dusty track ahead, stretching out beyond Bobby's land until it joined the main road. His eyes wandered aimlessly over the heaps of old metal and tyres. Would any still work?

That one might be worth trying. And he needed a drink. He _desperately_ needed a drink. Before he had finished thinking the words, the car had been hotwired and he was on his way. He wasn't sure where he was going. Just to anywhere that he could get a drink and some space to think.

The bar he found was as rough as his emotions. But at least the barman wasn't too worried about his youthful looks as long as he had his fake ID with him, although he did pointedly indicate that Sam should sit in the rear of the room in one of the darker corners. That suited Sam fine. He took his beer and sat gratefully at the rough, wooden table, and just allowed his thoughts to consume all of his attention.

He sat a long time, only stirring from his position twice to get his glass refilled. He was so deep in his thoughts that it startled him when a tray was suddenly and carefully placed on his table. A tray complete with a few glasses full of the most perfectly clear dark amber coloured drink.

He looked up in a slight daze from his beer.

"Don't worry, son." A deep, softly spoken, calming voice soothed him. "Only one's for you. You look like you could do with something stronger than what you've got."

Sam stared. The man obviously wasn't local: he was dressed in a business suit. A very smart, expensively cut, exquisitely tailored, business suit that showed off an extremely well-toned figure beneath that belied the man's maturity. He must have been in his forties, perhaps even a few years more. His hair was dark brown and beginning to grey at the temples, but it suited him. He was good-looking in a chiselled-cut cheek boned sort of way, and his dark eyes were twinkling as he smiled down at Sam.

"Mind if I join you? You look like you could use a sounding board. And you know what they say about how it's easier to talk to a stranger than to a friend..." He gestured at the chair opposite Sam and the young man found himself nodding.

He studied him as the man sat down: noting his diamond and platinum tie pin, obviously expensive; the rich musk of his cologne, obviously expensive; his understated jewellery, a simple plain wedding band on the left hand and a much larger item on his right, a solid gold signet ring set with some sort of seal or symbolic crest engraved into it, obviously expensive; his platinum and diamond cufflinks set with the same symbol, obviously expensive; his gold, diamond and platinum watch, obviously _very_ expensive.

"They do a very good whisky here in case you're wondering." The stranger motioned to him to try one of the shots and Sam obeyed, taking a careful sip. His new friend was right, he decided. That was the smoothest whisky he'd ever drank in his life.

The other sighed reverently as he took a sip from his own glass. "Worth taking a detour for." Then he sat back on the rough seat and studied Sam. "Let me guess. Girl trouble?"

"No." Sam felt somewhat bound to answer him. "Actually... Actually my father's just died. It's been somewhat of a shock."

The other was immediately sympathetic. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Had he been ill?"

"No. It was...right out of the blue. I can't. I just can't. And now, there's other things. Other things I should have known. Things that should never have been kept from me. And I can't deal with it all at the moment, I just can't."

"I'm so sorry, son. Have another, you look like you need it."

Sam gratefully took another glass and savoured the taste.

"I'd have put you as a College boy. There's something about you that doesn't belong here."

Sam appreciated the attempt to change the subject and grinned. "I was thinking the same about _you_. Not the College part, obviously."

The man smiled, a warm, open smile that lit up his face. "Touché."

"I was at Stanford for a while." Sam confided. "But there...was an accident. A fire. My girlfriend got killed. I couldn't... I had to come home. And then this."

The man blinked. "Sounds like you've really been through it, son." Thoughtfully he sipped on his last drink, then motioned to the bartender to come to the table. Sam noted absently that this was a different man that he had brought his drinks from. To his surprise, after he had poured the drinks, the barman didn't return to his station but stayed standing waiting quietly beside their table.

But his new friend was picking up two glasses and handing one to Sam as if to make a toast. "To your girlfriend and your father, may they rest in peace." Sam felt like arguing about the latter, but he appreciated the sentiment as he downed the drink.

"So then," the man commented as he reached for another shot. "Will you be returning to your studies at Stanford? You must be a clever young man."

"I got a full scholarship" Sam admitted. "I'd like to. It's my dream to. But I've missed over a year already and...things have gotten very complicated."

"I'm sure it would make your father proud if you did."

Sam snorted despite himself. "Him? He hated it. Told me never to come back if I went."

"I can't believe that."

"Believe it!" Sam couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. "He tried to stop me! I left and hoped never to go back. And now I find out that he'd been lying to me my whole life! And forcing my brother to as well! I'm so mad at him I could...!" He stopped. He hadn't meant to say all of that. But the other's eyes were sympathetic and friendly.

"Sounds serious." He offered another drink. The glasses were refilled.

"I'm sure your father would have been proud. I'm a father myself: we don't always say or show what we mean in the right way. But I bet he would have been very proud of you once you'd graduated. Why don't you try and go back?"

"I'd love to. But. Would I be able to? And if I've lost the scholarship... I'd never be able to afford it."

"You could find out. Go back. You've just told me the only one holding you back was your father... Go and find out, Sam."

Sam felt the hope begin to rise inside him as he had another whisky, then despair as it immediately crashed again. "I can't. There's another complication now. And I've probably lost the scholarship anyway." 'A yellow-eyed demon' he wanted to add. 'I'm gonna kill a yellow-eyed demon before I _think_ about doing anything else.'

Miserably he sought another glass of whisky. His new friend nodded at him to take one but seemed deep in thought as they both drank. "How much would it cost?"

"Excuse me?"

"To finish at Stanford? Thirty grand a year? Fifty? How many years?"

"I. I'm not sure. I've lost a year so..."

"I like you, Sam. I'd like to see you graduate and make something of yourself. I'll pay. Whenever you decide to go back, I'll pay."

Sam stared at him, ready to laugh. But the man seemed serious. "That's... that's ridiculous!"

"I'm serious. I'd like to see you make something of yourself. I'm a good judge of character and I think that you would. _Make_ your old man proud. Or spit in his face, whichever incentive you want. But I'm serious, I can afford it and I'll pay when you decide to go back."

Sam didn't know what to say. "But. No! That's incredible of you to offer, but I could never pay that back. I don't even know you, and I could _never_ pay that back!"

The other man hmphed and sat back in his chair, then almost immediately leant forward again, his dark brown eyes open and wide. "So we'll not make it a debt. Sell me something. What have you got? I'll buy it for enough that you can finish at Stanford!"

Sam was overwhelmed by his generosity. "I don't have anything. Seriously, nothing."

"You must have something, Sam. Your father's belongings, didn't he leave you anything? Anything you could sell for your future? And graduating Stanford would give you an incredible future, it really would!"

" I...I." Sam was flustered, trying to think clearly through the happy haze of whisky he was now in. "There's nothing. He left me nothing! _He_ had nothing! His old truck I suppose. And he'd already given the car to my brother but that got wrecked in the crash."

"Dean crashed?" The man was sitting forwards in his seat.

" _I_ crashed! I wrecked his car! Oh god, he's there at the yard now. I bet he's found it! I should go." He began to try and get up, felt a wave of drunken dizziness and sat down again.

"Hold on Sam, because we're still trying to think this through. There must be something you can sell. It doesn't have to be important. Can be something, anything, that you wouldn't even miss." Was it Sam's imagination or was the tone of the man's voice slightly sharper than it had been? "Are you sure you've gone through all your father's papers? There might be something you've missed. Some old paperwork that you haven't read properly yet."

Sam was frowning. There was something niggling him at the back of his whisky-soaked mind. What was it?

His drinking friend noticed and sat back in his seat again with a sigh and an easy smile once again. "I'm getting too pushy, aren't I? Sorry, I just like to help people that I feel would appreciate it. And I like you, Sam, I feel you would appreciate it and really make something of yourself. It sounds like you've been through enough already. You deserve a good life. Isn't there something you could _think_ about selling..."

"There's nothing." Sam shifted in his seat, he was getting uncomfortable about something and he didn't know what. The movement caused his jacket to catch on the table, the crumpled deeds that he had stuffed into his pocket rustling as they were crushed even more. He noticed the other man's eyebrows shooting up in response to the sound.

He didn't want to pull the paperwork out of his pocket, but somehow the inquiring expression on the face of the man made him do so. That and the new glass of whisky that he was pouring for him.

"He only left... this. I can't believe...this."

"Aren't those...?" The other was now leaning forward, recognising the distinctive style and lettering on the forms. "You have a slave, Sam! Would he be enough to pay for your education?"

"Oh no! I couldn't do that! I would _never_ do that!" Sam was aghast at the thought. "I never even knew he was... It's come as a shock."

"It must have done. But...don't you see, Sam. You do have something you can sell! To pay for your education. Give you an amazing life. Make your father proud!"

"But. No! I couldn't do that. It... _He's_. ..No." Sam's head was now pounding. He wanted to stand up, but wasn't sure if he could. How much whisky had he drunk? Definitely way too much .And there was something, _something_ that was screaming at him from somewhere inside his head that he should have noticed, something he was missing, something important.

"Come on Sam. Think it through. You're obviously an intelligent young man." The man's voice turned very persuasive: "You can _be_ something. Your brother would understand that: he'd be _pleased_ for you. Sell Dean to me and I'll give you enough money for you to go back to Stanford and fulfil your dreams. _All_ your dreams."

Don't be ridiculous, Sam thought. He'd never sell Dean...

And there it was suddenly: that thing that had been nagging at him. How did this man know Dean's name? How did he know _Sam's_ name? Sam couldn't remember telling him his own. But he was _damned_ sure that he hadn't mentioned Dean's. Or that his brother was the slave in question...

Desperately he tried to get himself sober enough to get to his feet and stay there. "I think I better go. I've drunk far too much. I think I better call my brother to come and get me."

Even as he was saying the words he was looking around the bar for the first time since he'd arrived. And he was suddenly realising that all the locals had gone, every single one. Even though it was now early evening and people would be dropping in for a 'quick one' before heading home. The original barman had gone. And the only people in that entire room were the well-dressed but now not so pleasant stranger sitting with him; the man standing to attention beside them and another watching attentively from a separate table that Sam hadn't previously noticed, but who were obviously both with his drinking companion, and Sam himself. And another man who he suddenly realised had been standing guard at the door, ensuring that they weren't interrupted. Shit.

The man leant forward on his chair and put both his elbows on the table, touching his fingertips together to make an inverted 'V'. He looked excited, Sam realised. His dark eyes were glinting with excitement. No, they were shining in anticipation.

"I think that's a good idea to call Dean, Sam. It looks like you've brought all his paperwork with you. Or the important bits I'd need anyway. Two hundred thousand dollars. Straight into your bank. Or however you want to be paid. That's a promise, Sam. Call Dean here and I'll take him with me now."

"He's not for sale." Sam could feel more than the whisky churning in his stomach now. Far too many whiskies. How could he have been so stupid? Desperately he began backing away towards the door, hoping he could perhaps make a run for it despite the fact that he could hardly _see_ clearly now.

"I don't think you're listening, Sam. I'm not actually asking you anymore. You've just shown me the deeds. Dean isn't officially yours, because you haven't registered your claim on him yet. Should that paperwork go missing in the meantime, then he's up for sale again. I might even get him cheaper! Should _you_ go missing in the meantime...?

So be sensible and take the offer. I'm an honest man: you'll get the money if you just hand the deeds over like a good boy. But I _will_ be taking him with me today."


	6. Trapped

TRAPPED

Nausea hit Sam hard and he nearly gagged, trying to keep the whisky, _whiskies_ , down inside his stomach. But it wasn't just caused by them: it was caused by the sinking feeling that he had let his brother down. Dean would have known immediately how important it was to get that paperwork dealt with. That was why the first thing he had done on returning to Bobby's was fetch the box with all their father's papers in and then he had stood and waited nervously to try and find the way to get Sam to look at them, hovering around the room until Sam had all but snapped at him to sit down as ' _he'd_ only just come out of hospital himself really and what the hell was all that in his hand?'

Clarity hit Sam even harder than the nausea had. As soon as he had realised what the paperwork was, what it _meant_ , he should have been there on the floor besides his brother hugging him as hard as he could, and assuring him that he would _never_ be letting him go and that they would be going that day to get this sorted. But he hadn't, he'd just sat there. He couldn't even remember if he had spoken anything to Dean: he couldn't recall saying even a single word.

No wonder Dean had looked so...the word upset just didn't come close enough. Perhaps broken, but that would be the last word that Sam would ever think of using to describe his brother. He had gone dead white, almost as pale as when he had been lying in that hospital bed so short a time before, he had even stumbled a little as he had stood up, and Sam would never forget how his brother seemed to be trembling as he had quietly left the room.

Sam had been concerned about him as he had watched him walk away. He should have gone after him, but he had just been so stunned by the revelation of what he was to be able to think clearly. And now Dean probably thought that he didn't care, that he didn't want to keep him. That he'd sell him to a man like this.

The first thing Sam had to do was find Dean and put him right.

No. The _first_ thing he had to do was get himself out of this situation that he had been so stupid as to have got himself into. Not for the first time in his life did he wish with all his heart that his brother was there.

"Sam? You okay?"

Tears prickled in his eyes as he realised that yet again his prayers had been answered. Then they were immediately blinked back as he caught the expression in the stranger's face as Dean moved fully into the room, putting himself protectively between his younger brother and danger.

And it _was_ danger. Sam had faced monsters before, but the predatory self-satisfied look on this man's face as it settled on his brother took Sam's breath away with fear.

"Sam. Why don't you go and wait outside? Get some air."

For a moment he almost did, he was so used to following Dean's instructions without question. But something about that look on the man's face made him desperate to get his brother out of there as well, so instead he reached out to touch his slightly wandering hand to Dean's shoulder. "We'll go together."

"You can go, Sam." His drinking buddy wasn't even looking at him any more: his intense gaze was fixed solidly on Dean. "Just leave the papers. You'll get your money, don't worry."

Even as Sam was snapping his response, he noted Dean's shoulders drooping a little at the man's words: "I told you already, he's not for sale. He will _never_ be for sale."

"Oh Sam. And I thought you were intelligent." The smartly dressed man was getting up to walk around the table towards Dean, his men unobtrusively shadowing him, both heavily muscled and lean. Why had Sam not realised that they were goons? Why had he not noticed them arriving? "You tell him, Dean. Make him listen. I've made a good offer for you, it will set him up for life. I was hoping he wasn't going to be as obstinate as John."

The man was tall, Sam realised suddenly. As tall as he himself was and a good three or four inches taller than his brother as he came to a stop right in front of Dean, looking down at him with that same self-satisfied, predatory, lustful expression on his face that he had had since the moment Dean had come into the room. And he was fit beneath that suit. Sam had noticed he was toned, but he was _fit_. He stepped forward deliberately right into Dean's personal space, forcing the smaller man to look up at him. But Dean didn't flinch or back away from the intrusion, instead he drew himself up to his full height defiantly and stood his ground.

He didn't move even when the other deliberately ran the back of his manicured fingers gently down Dean's cheek in a seductive caress. "Look at you. Not many get better with age, Dean. I gave up buying beautiful little boys a long time ago, they too often disappoint by growing into ugly young men. But you? I should have followed my instinct all those years ago and kept bidding. Those eyes." He kept his hand resting gently against Dean's jaw as he leant down so close that he could stare down into the deep green well of them, their noses almost brushing against each other's. "And those nights when you had to pay John's debts for him? You give addiction a bad name, Dean."

Sam exclaimed and started forward, but his brother, without looking, swung his right hand behind him and up to meet Sam's chest hard and stop him in a definite gesture of warning.

"Listen to your brother, Sam." Neither of them turned to look at him. "Go back to your studies. Leave the deeds on the table behind you."

"Go to hell. And get your hands off him."

The man smirked. "You have no ideas about how to handle a slave, do you?" His hand moved suddenly to roughly grasp a handful of short hair at the back of Dean's head, pulling it and him backwards and down in a painful and unnatural arch of his body. Dean couldn't help giving a grunt of pain but his only other response was to keep his hand tight against Sam's chest to stop him from drunkenly rushing in.

"That's right, Dean. Control your brother." His eyes glittered towards Sam to watch his reaction as he flattened his tongue and slowly and sensually licked up Dean's exposed neck and around to his left ear. Sam expected Dean to explode with anger at the unwanted explicit touch, but he didn't move a muscle apart from his left hand tightening into a ball of angry, white-knuckled tension by his side.

Nor did he didn't react when the man moved his mouth down to his Adam's apple and nibbled at it. Not even when he caught the skin beneath between his surgically perfect white teeth and bit Dean hard enough to make him flinch. Still he didn't respond.

Sam was sobering up fast, and he had never been so angry in all his life. How dare this man humiliate his brother like this? But still Dean's hand held firm against his chest as if to warn him from interfering.

"Mmm. You taste as good as I remember. Was John satisfied with that twelfth century samurai sword I smuggled into the country for him?" Again a long slow lick up the other side of Dean's neck, the tongue finding its way into his ear to begin exploring, the man's entire mouth covering it with moist warm droplets of breath. "I'm having my bedroom remodelled to keep you in. Everything we'll need will be in there, you won't ever have to leave it. _We_ won't ever have to leave it. Unless you've been really, really good and you deserve a reward… But you'd have to prove to me how _good_ you can be." His lips left Dean's neck to hover above his mouth. "Once you're mine, I intend to spend every minute of every day inside you."

Dean finally responded, his voice rasping slightly from the painful position he was being held in by the man's tight grip. "I bet your wife would love that."

"She won't care as long as she gets her pretty things. It's not only slaves who can be bought. Expensive jewellery, the cost of a good education. Talk some sense into your brother, Dean. Be the means for him to make something from his life."

Sam finally exploded in temper, Dean was _not_ going to hold him back anymore. "He's not for sale! He will _never_ be for sale as long as I'm alive!" He winced as Dean's hand against his chest suddenly fisted into a tight warning grip on his shirt and the skin beneath.

At the same time his still slightly fuzzy whisky-fused vision cleared enough for him to realise that there were more than just the three bodyguards in the bar. The man must have travelled there with an entourage of trained heavies as one more was stepping out of the shadows in the corners by the rear exit. And another had been leaning seemingly idly against the wall beside the filthy window, but now he sprang to attention ready to serve if needed.

The man had come ready to take Dean with him by any means, which meant he and Dean were heavily outnumbered. His brother would had _known_ how outnumbered they were as he had stepped in between them, that's why he was trying to warn him, and from the unpleasant expression on the businessman's face, him not being alive to register the claim on his brother would only serve to save the man the trouble of having to make the payment.

Of all the stupid things he had done that day, he realised bitterly, making that statement counted as one of the most stupid.

"How much did he offer you for me, Sammy?" The abruptness of the question brought both the others attention back to Dean. "Did I hear two hundred thousand? How long have you got left at Stanford?"

"Dean. Don't you _dare_!"

"Three years? More? I know someone who would probably pay half a million, you should go and talk to him." He smirked up at his tormentor with satisfaction as he watched the dark eyes glint with sudden angry understanding. "And to be honest, I might not mind _that_ deal!"

His grip on his brother's shirt was ripped away as the impeccably dressed man finally showed his true colours, grabbing him around the neck with both hands, picking him up and physically slamming him on his back down onto the nearest wooden table with an impact that was felt through the floor beneath.

The sudden violence and sheer physicality that manifested in the previously pleasant man took Sam's breath away. He wanted to help his brother, to stop this, but he was now almost sober enough to realise that Dean had provoked this deliberately to get the attention away from him. All he could do was watch as his brother's body was pulled up once more by his neck, shaken violently and again slammed back down onto the hard unyielding surface beneath.

The other leant right over him, lips drawn back over the perfect white teeth in a snarl. He was so incensed that he covered Dean with spit: "Has _he_ ever touched you? Tell me!"

Despite the hands tightening around his throat, Dean croaked a laugh. "Do you think _you're_ the only one that John used me as payment for? The man knew a meal ticket when he had one!"

His laugh was cut off as the grip around his neck ceased suddenly, only for his right ankle to be seized instead and yanked at sharply, resulting with him being dragged right off the table and onto the floor, hitting the back of his head on both as he went down. Even as Dean registered that there was warm liquid beginning to trickle down to his neck, the hair on the top of his scalp was caught in a viciously tight grip and he was forced up onto his feet before again being picked up physically and slammed back down on the table.

"The damned man made you feral. You'll bloody well learn how to control yourself or I'll take great pleasure in beating it out of you. I'll beat it out of you anyway." It was a hiss into his face: the man was so manic that his wide pupils made his eyes look almost blacker than a demon's, Dean thought, and almost twice as frightening.

"You touch him again, ya bastard, and I'll end ya." It was Bobby's voice. Sam turned in relief.

It wasn't just Bobby standing in the doorway. The original bartender was there, and a man who was obviously the owner as well as more than a few local men, all with rifles and shotguns ready and aimed at the smartly dressed man and his bodyguards.

Not that he had needed any of them, Sam thought as the man released his grip on Dean's throat and took a step away from him. He had shown his own violent strength and ability in the assault on his brother. Sam hurried around the other side of the table to help Dean as he tried to get up, wincing as he saw the fresh blood glinting against the wood and the already blossoming mass of darkening bruises around his neck.

The man put his hands up with a smile, his face back to the pleasant, jovial expression that Sam had first seen him wearing. Sam wondered why he had ever thought the man's eyes were friendly as the smile didn't come close to reaching them. "I'm sorry about that. It was just a little argument that got out of control." He was glancing around at his men, shaking his head at them not to pull any concealed weapons out. A man like that didn't want his name linked with any trouble in a rough place like this bar, and there were enough men on both sides for a lot of blood to be shed.

"Bullshit." The owner snarled. "Brad called me in a panic. You were paying off those who were in and threatened him to go, leaving just a boy in there on his own with you and your men. I raced here and was calling the police when his brother and Bobby arrived. I wasn't happy about letting _him"_ with a nod at Dean, "come in on his own but he insisted. And I don't like your version of a friendly argument. Time you settled your bill and left."

"I brought my own drink with me. I wouldn't wash my _feet_ in the shit you serve in here!"

Every single gun in the doorway was now trained on him.

"Still, time to settle up. And don't forget the tip!"

The smartly dressed man drew himself up, straightened his suit and tie and nodded to his men to leave. He knew how to be patient. He knew there would be another time. He moved across to the seats where he and Sam had sat for so long and retrieved his bottle, handing it to Dean who was sitting up on the table with his hand to the back of his head, as he passed.

"They reckon wild mustangs are the hardest to break and the most fun to ride, Dean. I will have you. The offer is now quarter of a million." His words were low but clear.

"No deal." Sam muttered through clenched teeth.

"Think about it."

He moved to the group of men in the doorway whilst getting his wallet out of his pocket and thrusting a wad of notes at the owner. "Here, get the place redecorated. Something _tasteful_." He motioned to his men and they followed him silently out through the doorway past Bobby and the locals.

There was silence as all eyes watched the men leave. Then while the others laughed and cheered, Bobby was hurrying over to Dean.

"You alright, boy? He was slamming you around pretty good."

"I'm fine, just sore. You took your sweet time, I was beginning to run out of ways to stall him!"

"Took longer to round help up than I thought, boy, you were right about how many we would be up against. And I don't like your way of stalling him. Looked like you were taking a pounding to me! Is that blood? Let me see your head! Jesus, you've only just been released from hospital! It'll need stitches, let's get you back home."

"It's _fine_. As long as I was playing sub, he was enjoying showing off. If I'd fought back, it would have been far worse. If he'd got his men involved, we'd have been in trouble once he knew he could take me _and_ the proof of ownership."

"I'm sorry, Dean." Sam's voice was small.

"Not your fault, Sammy."

Dean stretched his back out and tried not to show the wince, but neither of the other men missed it. "If you bring Sam, I'll take the old buick that he used back."

"No way _you're_ driving with that head!" "I'd rather come with _you._ " The simultaneous responses were both equally ignored as Dean was already turning and walking far too upright to be natural out of the bar, wiping his bloody hand on his denims as he went, and handing the bottle with the last remnants of extremely expensive whisky to the owner as he passed him.

Sam sighed and began to follow, glad to finally be getting out of that dark room. Then, as the cooling evening air hit him, the joint effects of recent events and far too much drink caught up and to his shame he suddenly and uncontrollably vomited just outside the door. He could hear the grumbles and jeers from the men who had come to rescue him. "Great, just great!" "Can't hold his liquor, poor kid!" "Oh crap, now I'll have to clear that up." "Fancy wasting that good stuff on a kid, where'd that bottle go?"

Then the door was shut behind him, he had a vile taste in his mouth, his brother and the old car he had borrowed were long gone out of sight and he was left with Bobby standing glaring at him.

"Great! No wonder Dean volunteered you to drive with _me_. He's gone and I'm left with the idgit!"


	7. So Who Are You?

SO WHO ARE YOU?

The journey back to Bobby's was short enough that Sam managed to keep from losing anything else from his still unpleasantly churning stomach, but long enough that he had time to tell the older man everything that had happened in as much detail as he could remember. Bobby was silent for a long moment when he had finished.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"So you're telling me that this man knew about your dad dying and Dean not being claimed yet? John hasn't even been dead for forty-eight hours."

That brought Sam up short. He felt a chill go down his back despite his pounding head. That man, whoever he was, had come to that bar deliberately. Because he had known that Sam would be there. He had known who _Sam_ was and how to find him. His stomach turned again but not from the effects of the whisky this time.

"And Sam?"

"Yeah Bobby?"

"You serious? He offered quarter of a million dollars for Dean? I don't know about the price of slaves but…"

"He was serious, Bobby. And very, very rich. And obviously used to getting what he wants, and that was the price of me finishing at Stanford, and to be honest, his watch _alone_ probably cost nearly that, but… Yeah, Bobby, I know. That's a hell of a lot of money, I don't think slaves are usually anything like that! And he went nuts when Dean mentioned somebody else. I mean really nuts: you saw the marks he left on his neck. It was like Dean flipped a switch in his brain when he mentioned him."

"Do you think Dean knew that would be the reaction?"

"I'm fucking sure of it."

"Watch your mouth, boy."

"Sorry Bobby."

By this time they were pulling into Bobby's yard. Sam breathed an audible sigh of relief that hurt his own head when he saw the old car that he had borrowed sitting where it had previously been. Bobby glanced at him briefly: "Did you think he wouldn't come back?"

Sam felt his face redden. "I just. After the way I've behaved today. And that man….touching him in the way he did. Not the violence you saw. But before. Dean had to take it to protect me. I was just worried that…"

"That he'd run away, Sam? No, I seem to remember that that was more _your_ forte! You think you've got it tough? Well, real father or not, that boy _loved_ your dad, couldn't have loved him any more if he was his natural son, and he's not only suffering because John's gone, he's…well, he's got all _this_ to deal with as well. Two days and that man found him. Imagine if he'd taken him. Where is Dean going to run to with men like that after him?"

Sam felt his shame burn within him. "I think Dean loved dad more than I did." he admitted. "Much more. I was just grateful that _he_ had survived. Am I a terrible person, Bobby?"

Bobby gave a massive sigh and smiled despite his sadness for the boy. For _both_ the boys. "You want my opinion Sam? That boy out there's been _your_ dad since the moment he carried you out of that fire. He's been your big brother, best friend, baby sitter _and_ dad all wrapped in one. So you're not a terrible person for him meaning more to you than John did, Sam. Just… Dean's needing you to do right by him. And the sooner the better before whoever this other man is comes looking as well."

They were both clambering out of the van by this time. Sam paused as he felt the world spin on its axis as soon as his feet were on the ground. He took a moment to steady himself. Bobby looked through the windows of the vehicle and muttered a cuss beneath his breath before coming round to see if he needed help walking into the house.

Sam shook his hand off and purposely began to make his way to the door. His head hurt so much and he had been so useless earlier. He was never going to drink whisky again. He never even wanted to look at a bottle of the stuff again! As he gratefully felt the solidity of the doorframe beneath his hand, he finally felt able to speak.

"As soon as I've registered the claim for him, Bobby, I'm going to sort out a will and leave him to you. At least you'll know about this and what to do."

The older man sniffed noisily: "Well boy, I hate to hear you talk about you dying, but, yeah, good idea."

Sam was relieved. "I'm gonna brush my teeth and have a shower, and brush my teeth again. Then can you drive us? Let's get this done."

"Sure thing, Sam. As soon as you feel up to it."

He felt a lot better after he had been upstairs, his head had almost cleared: all he needed now was coffee, lots of coffee. He wandered back down into the kitchen to get some, looking through into the sitting room as he did. "Where's Dean?"

Bobby was leaning against the counter munching a chicken sandwich. He reached to fetch the boy a mug as he replied slightly hesitantly: "He hasn't come in from the yard yet Sam. I think he needs some time on his own. Here, I made it fresh." He turned back round with the full mug to find he was talking to himself. "Balls."

It took Sam some time to find his brother. The fading light didn't help, but eventually he saw him, kneeling beside some tyres, absolutely motionless, staring across at the remains of the destroyed Impala.

He didn't even turn his head to acknowledge Sam as he approached: he just kept staring at the mangled wreckage, lost deep within his own thoughts. The younger man carefully lowered himself beside him, stretching his long legs out in front. He waited for Dean to say something but eventually he had no choice but to break the silence.

"Do you think it's fixable?"

Dean stirred and finally turned his head to look at him. "What?"

"The Impala? Do you think you can fix it? Or have I totally destroyed it?"

He was surprised at Dean's expression: confusion, doubt, disbelief, hope? "Will I be.… here to get the chance to?"

It was Sam's turn to go through confusion, then sudden realisation. He twisted onto his knees and was launching himself at Dean to gather him into the largest hug he could manage before the other had time to react.

"Of _course_ you'll be here! I meant what I told that bastard! You're my _brother_! No way I'm selling you, or letting anyone like that take you, Ever! Didn't you realise that? Oh god Dean, have you been out here worrying about _that_? I'm never letting you go, you're stuck with me, you moron!"

He felt Dean stiffen slightly . "You really mean that, Sammy? I can stay?" His voice still sounded unsure.

"Oh god, Dean! You're not going anywhere without me! Oh, you idiot! How could you possibly think otherwise?"

"You won't regret it, Sam. I'll be good, I promise."

Sam knelt back on his heels with amazement. Dean was serious. This was a Dean that he had never seen before and that realisation shook him more than all the rest of the day's events put together. He caught his brother's face between his hands and made him look straight at him. "You. Are. My. Brother. It don't matter you're not blood, you're my _brother_. My big, ugly, can't-sing-for-toffee brother."

"Hey! Not so much of the ugly, bitch!" _There_ was the Dean he knew.

"Jerk!" Sam leant forward, enough to gently touch their foreheads together. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I'm not going to let you go until I get a hug back!"

He felt the snort of laughter rather than heard it, then Dean's strong arms were hesitantly coming around him. Quickly he once again wrapped his brother in a hug, savouring the couple of seconds he knew he could get before Dean got embarrassed. He was right, the older man almost immediately pulled away again: nothing had changed there.

"Enough chick-flicking, huh?"

Sam smiled at him and sat back down beside him. "As soon as my stomach can deal with Bobby's van's bad suspension over a long distance, we're going to get your registration sorted out. I should have realised how important it was, I'm sorry, Dean."

"Nothing to be sorry about, Sam. Dad. Your dad didn't want you to be told. Made this worse than it should have been."

"Your dad too, Dean."

"Okay, Sammy. Thankyou."

Sam felt his heart hurt a little inside him. This quiet, nervous hesitation was throwing him. It felt almost that Dean had two personas: the loud, self-assured confident one that Sam had been used to for all of his life, and suddenly, underneath, there was another one, that Sam was catching glimpses of and didn't recognise at all. Which one was the real him? This was going to take some getting used to.

"So. Do you reckon you'll be able to fix the Impala?"

Dean looked at it in the near-gloom of twilight now and shrugged. "I can try."

"If anyone can, _you_ can." Sam told him and he meant it. "Come on, let's get inside. How's your head? Blegh!" As he leant to help Dean up and his head and stomach reminded him that they hadn't yet fully forgiven him for drinking so much whisky.

Dean caught at Sam and helped _him_ up. " _You_ okay?" His voice as full of concern as it always was.

Sam smiled. "Never drinking again! Period!"

"Come on."

They made their way inside to the warm kitchen, where Bobby had made a couple more sandwiches and was heating some canned soup on the stove. "Though you boys might need warming up." He greeted them with a smile that concealed the fact that he had been checking through the window for them just about every single minute since Sam had followed Dean outside. "Dean. Let me see that head of yours."

"It's fine, Bobby. I wrapped one of your ice packs in a towel and was holding it on it for a while. It's only a small cut, the blood made it look far worse than it is. I must have caught it on the edge of the table as he dragged me off it."

But he sat and let the older man examine it, because he knew he'd get no peace until he had. "Hmmph. Still a stitch or two might help. But it's stopped bleeding anyway." He paused, glanced at Sam for approval as he asked. "So who _was_ he?"

"Nobody that matters."

"Dean?" Sam had been burning to ask the same question.

The other paused, considered how to answer. "I don't want you involved, Sam. Or you Bobby."

"But..."

Dean sighed. The two other men could tell he didn't want to answer, didn't want to _be_ there at that moment to answer. But eventually he forced himself to speak again.

"I… They…" He stopped then tried again. "My job was to protect you, Sam, That's why I was allowed to stay, dad made that clear. And if I tell you about them, then I won't be doing my job. So… No, I'm not going to tell you."

Defiantly he brought his head up to face them both and waited for whatever response that might be coming his way.

Sam frowned and sat opposite him at the table. He desperately wanted to know who that man was today, in fact he had so many questions that he didn't know where to start. But his head was already beginning to pound again, and he knew that Dean's must be hurting: the cut might not have been as bad as he had first thought, but the bruised lump beneath his brother's hair definitely was.

"Okay. But if there comes a time I _need_ to know, then…"

"I'll tell you immediately. Scout's honour!"

Despite himself, Sam snorted: "Since when were _you_ a scout? You'd have eaten all the cookies!"

"That's girl scouts, Sam."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." He grinned at Dean, but the smile faded as he again saw a Dean he had never known before: an anxious, serious Dean. On impulse he reached out and covered his brother's hand with his own. "I think we both need something to eat and some sleep, then first thing tomorrow we go and do this, okay?"

The other nodded. "Okay."

"You both want soup?" Bobby had decided to take his lead from Sam. The younger man felt his stomach churn at the thought and winced, but decided to pick at the sandwich instead. Dean took a bowlful and sipped the thick, hot liquid carefully. They ate in silence for a while.

"So." It was no good, Sam couldn't help himself. "Who are you _really_?"

Dean paused from scraping the bowl with his spoon and looked at him blankly.

"Your name? What's your _real_ name?"

"Never had one, Sam."

"But you _must_ have had one. Before… What did everyone call you? Before you were…"

"Sold? I was young, Sam. I've never known another name but Dean."

"But you _must_ have!"

Dean sat back in his seat and steeled himself to answer the coming questions openly even though he didn't want to. His past was his past: he didn't want to think about it, he certainly didn't want to talk about it. But he owed Sammy this at least for not pressing him on the previous subject. So: "Four-five. I remember being called that."

"What the hell sort of name is _that_ , boy?" Bobby was incredulous.

"It's a number, Bobby. _My_ number. Initials of the Auction House, then 451140. That's me!"

"You gotta be _kidding_ me!?"

But they could both see that he wasn't.

"Do you have a family?" Sam could barely bring himself to ask.

Dean just shrugged. "I don't know Sam. I was only young. I'm sorry but I don't know."

"And you've never tried to find out?"

Dean sighed but Bobby was already there. "That's not fair, Sam!"

The younger man reddened in shame. "Sorry Dean. I just…"

"S'okay Sammy."

Bobby handed him his sandwich and they both watched him begin to eat it in silence. Eventually he gave up trying to convince himself that the questions had finished and tried to anticipate the next ones.

"I sort of remember the auction house. I remember Mr Johnson the boss, I remember _him_ all right. Remember the beatings. I still occasionally have nightmares about it. I remember your mum and dad buying me: I was willing them to buy me 'cos your mom looked so nice. And when she came back the next day to get me, she just swept me up in her arms and would hardly ever let me go. That was nice. _She_ was nice. That's all I really remember of her, but she was nice and I loved her. And your dad. He treated me right. Shouted a lot and threatened to send me back occasionally, but he never did."

"So, how old _were_ you when they bought you?"

Another shrug. "Not sure. Two? Three?"

"It should say on your record! It will have the date of your sale so we can work it out!" Sam was already fishing in his pocket for the deeds and paperwork: he swore under his breath at himself when he realised how badly he had crumpled it all up. The budding lawyer in him was disgusted at how he had mangled such important documents, and he as _Sam_ was ashamed all over again at how his casual carelessness of the deeds must have looked to his brother's eyes. Carefully he laid them down on the table and began to try and smooth them out.

"Here's the date of your sale, in December 1981. And here's a photostat copy of your original registration details when you were bought by the House!"

His excitement was short-lived. The copy was barely legible and incomplete: whoever had sold Dean into slavery hadn't been bothered to fill most of it in, or where they had, they had written so faintly that it had faded into nothing on the duplicate. The only two things clearly readable were the fact that he was male, and the date of his birth, but it was immediately evident to Sam, and to Bobby and Dean as they looked over his shoulder on seeing his reaction, that the latter item had been written over in a much stronger pen, and didn't seem to match up to the figures beneath from the scratched, all but illegible, original date below.

"That's Mr Johnson's writing." Dean recognised it. "Check it with where he wrote the distinguishing marks section on my medical form."

He was correct. The auction master had written inappropriately over the original record to fill in a legible but incorrect date of Dean's birthday.

"He would have had to put something in," Dean wasn't overly concerned. "For legal reasons. The factories can only buy slaves over five years old so all the paperwork has to match exactly. If there was a mistake and an underage slave was sent to a factory, there'd be hell to pay: the House might lose its license to trade."

"Yes, but..." This was the last straw for Sam: between his aching head and stomach, and the terrible events of the last few days, and then _this_ , he could feel himself wanting to break down and cry. "But they don't match! What he's put in doesn't match with what was there originally!"

"Well, yeah. He probably made it up. Looks like he picked a date at random. No big deal, Sam."

"It is, though, Dean. It _is_ a big deal!" He was fighting the tears away now that were accompanied by his migraine-level reaching headache. "That's not your _birthday_! It's all wrong! All of it! You don't have a name, or an age, or a family, or a birthday! All these years, and we've even been getting your _birthday_ wrong! It's all been wrong, and we don't know who you _are_!"

Dean looked at him in consternation then suddenly put his arms tight around his little brother and held him until the shaking that had accompanied the increasing hysteria had subsided.

" _I_ know who I am, Sammy. I'm your big brother. I'm Dean Winchester. And unless you decide you want me to have a different name or be somebody different, well then, that's who I damn well am going to be!"

.


	8. The Next Day

THE NEXT DAY

They left as early as they could the next morning to get to Minnesota. It would either be a long day of driving there and back, or mean a stopover somewhere. Either way it was important they got there.

Sam had got himself so worked up the night before that he had triggered the start of a migraine. Dean had had to help him up to Bobby's small guest room and settle him in the bed with some painkillers. "Sleep it off, Sammy."

He thought he heard Sam mumble something in the darkened room as he closed the door behind him. "I love you, Dean." Nah, _that_ couldn't have been what his brother had said, he must have misheard him.

He had returned downstairs to set up the small camping cot bed that they took turns to sleep on in the main room, though he guessed it would probably be his exclusively from now on. Now that Sam knew the truth about him.

"Hold on." And Bobby had made him sit still while he had put a couple of small neat stitches in the wound on the back of his head and dressed it carefully so it wouldn't get infected or catch on anything during the night. Then he had insisted on examining Dean's back where it had been smacked hard against the unyielding wood of the table in the bar. He heard Bobby inhale a deep breath when he looked but he had no need to ask why: he had felt every painful inch of the deep coloured, sore bruises with every slight movement that he had made since the assault that afternoon.

Carefully the old man had strapped him up. " _You_ need rest as well, boy. It's been a hell of a day. Here."

Dean had taken the offered painkillers and the glass of whisky to wash them down with a grin. "Don't tell Sam."

"Our secret." Bobby's smile was sad. "Night, son."

And Dean had tried to sleep, although the small bed was uncomfortable for his back no matter how he lay, and his neck was so sore, and his head pounded no matter how slight the contact between the fresh tender lump on his head and the canvas. But eventually he had managed to drift off.

Only to be woken in the early hours of the morning by the cot suddenly creaking and dipping to one side as his brother was somehow getting on it with him.

"Sam?"

"Move up."

"How?"

"Come here then."

And Sam had pushed and pulled at him until he was being spooned in his arms, the hammock effect of the bed holding the length of his back fully against Sam's chest, the side of his head resting gently on Sam's bicep with his brother's other arm tight around his torso. "Am I hurting your head?"

"Nah. It's fine." Dean wasn't quite sure what was happening, but the warmth that Sam's body was giving off was really soothing. He could feel his eyes closing despite himself.

"Dean? If anyone wants to take you, then they're going to have to go through _me_. Now go back to sleep." He was only just aware of the whisper as he had finally slept deeply.

It had been a struggle to slide out of the camping cot a few hours later without tipping it over or waking Sam up. But he had managed it eventually and gone for a shower. His entire body hurt so much that the idea of sitting in a near stationary position in a car all day wasn't appealing at all, but his anxiety over being forced back into the slave auctions was enough to over-ride any obstacle. If Sam and Bobby only knew...

He strapped himself up again as best as he could and went to see if anyone else was awake. Bobby was in the kitchen gathering supplies for the trip. "How is _Sam_ in the cot?"

"He was sleepwalking. I took the sofa." It seemed less strange than the truth. Perhaps it really _was_ the truth? Because otherwise why would Sam have got into his bed? And for some reason he didn't want to tell Bobby that he had.

"Hmm. As soon as he's up, we'll get going. It's going to be a long day."

That turned out to be an understatement. It took a good six hours just to get there, plus another to find the Auction House. Then while Sam and Bobby dealt with the registration and his brother filled in the forms, and handed over proof of his identity as well as of their dad's death, and signed for new ownership, Dean had to undergo the medical that every slave hated: an intrusive, impersonal, intimate perusal and examination of every inch of his skin, with every new mark, scar and bruise, of which there were many even _before_ the previous day, noted and for which he had to give an explanation that didn't incriminate John as being a brutal and abusive slave owner. And by implication, his son and new master to be as well.

The medical examiner was less than convinced: "Are you being _forced_ to stay with him? Is he threatening you? Because this is where you can walk away. He can be prosecuted if he's been violent towards you." He was examining the remains of the burn just under Dean's left collarbone with a frown."This wasn't an accident. What was it, a hot poker? A brand of some sort? And that there looks like a bullet wound for god's sake. And did he do that to your neck? Jesus. You don't have to stay with him if you're afraid of him: this is your one chance to get away and take another master."

"It was an accident. I'm just clumsy. And I _want_ to stay with Sam. Please." He remembered to add just in time.

But finally it was over and Sam carefully and reverently placed the new deeds for his brother into a hard-cased document holder that he had purposely bought with him. No _way_ was anything happening to these.

By this time it was late in the afternoon. "So." Bobby asked as they finally left the huge, imposing soulless building behind them and were walking back to the old car that he had decided to use that day. "Get a meal, find a motel? Or just get back?"

The decision turned out to be unanimous. They all just wanted to go home.


	9. The Black Limousine

THE BLACK LIMOUSINE

Two days after Sam had registered his claim on Dean, they had a call to say that the Coroner's Office was allowing the release of John's body, cause of death: 'Unknown', and they could go and collect both it and the full Death Certificate. (An interim certificate being immediately issued if the deceased is a slave owner for re-registration purposes and the government department in Washington given notification of the time of death to the exact _minute_.)

They had brought his remains back to Bobby's and given him a proper Hunter's Burial. Sam was surprised when many other hunters had somehow known and arrived to show their support. His father may not have been well liked but he _had_ been well respected.

He was also surprised by how many of the others Dean knew, and how they were all immediately and spontaneously coming to comfort him. His brother _was_ well liked. As well as respected a _lot_.

For the first time Sam regretted leaving to go to College, because he had missed out on being a part of _this_ by doing so. It might be a lonely, hard profession, but it was a _community_ of lone, hard-working professionals. And, whereas he was getting the customary, meant to be consoling nods and words of sympathy that were immediately forgotten by both sides, Dean was getting the promises, the pledges of support at 'any time', 'just you call immediately', 'will drop everything', 'you keep in touch, do'ya _hear_ ' stipulations that would help him, the _both_ of them, to get through this and what was to come.

But they were both glad when it was over and the others had drifted back to wherever they had each been ensconced, leaving only them to watch the remains finally burn out: just the two of them as it had always been. And Bobby of course.

It was only then that Sam had finally felt himself tear up: "Did he say anything to you?" he had asked his brother.

"No. Nothing" had come the response.

The very next day, Dean had gotten up early and begun to work at restoring the Impala.

He had returned to being more of his normal self after being registered: it was obvious that the worry of being returned had been a massive strain on his emotions and the relief that Sam had wanted to keep him even greater, but there was still a new quietness about him that threw Sam every time.

Whereas Dean previously would always have been doing something: working getting information on a case; cleaning weaponry; cooking for Sam or helping him with his homework, (until Sam had overtaken him in just about every subject), or just general scivvying for their father; Dean was _always_ doing _something_ , and always doing it full focus.

But now? Sam couldn't put his finger on it. But there was something different. The smile was back, although not often. So occasionally was the laughter and definitely the quick wit. But somehow _different_. As if the past wasn't yet past. The problems of what he was might have been postponed, but it would never be past. Despite Sam having already been to a local lawyer and making out not only a will that left his brother to Bobby, but also gave him power of attourney should anything else that might affect his possession of Dean occur. It was as if Dean couldn't relax because he knew that his past would never be _allowed_ to be past.

He hadn't spoken a word to Sam about Sam all but squashing him in the camping cot that night. Neither had Sam, although he had agreed about going along with the 'sleep-walking' excuse. After all he had a track record in doing so as a child and with the stress of their father's death as well as the shock of what had come after, it wasn't too far-fetched for Bobby to believe that it had manifested again.

But he definitely hadn't been asleep.

Nor, as Dean probably believed, had he gone to him to make sure that he was alright after the distressing events of the day. Although the satisfaction he had felt when he had realised that Dean had actually fallen asleep in his arms, and into such a deep sleep that had lasted for quite a few hours, far longer or deeper than he had known Dean to sleep for since, well, since he had picked Sam up from Stanford, was a more intense feeling than he could have ever contemplated.

No, Sam had gone to his brother because he had needed to for himself. Because right until his young teens, Sam had always slept with Dean. No matter what bed they separately started the night in, he had always moved to join his brother. No matter if it was them squashed together on the back seat of the Impala, Sam had always slept in his brother's arms. And although he hated to admit it, it was the _only_ place in his whole life that he had _ever_ slept properly and soundly.

It had been that way as long as he could remember: right from a tiny child. He needed to know his brother was there; needed to know he was alive; needed to know that the one tiny bit of normality they had in their crazy, monster-chasing, never in one place for more than was necessary, often bloody or broken-boned, nomadic, _lonely_ life had survived another day. He needed to know that the one, the _only_ , constant in his life, that _Dean_ was there, with his strong arms around him: safe and sound within the motel or car, and making Sam feel safe as well.

They had done that right up until Sam was eleven, perhaps even twelve. Dean had grumbled and teased before then of course, but he had always slid across whatever bed and made room for Sam. Until the night he had been told not to. The night that John had stood and yelled and told Sam in no uncertain terms that he was far too old, and what the hell was he thinking, and they would both get a damn good hiding if he ever saw Dean with his arm around him again.

And that had been that. Dean hadn't even disobeyed when John hadn't been there to see: if Sam crossed to his bed, Dean would move to Sam's. Or simply go out. In fact he had begun to mostly just go out and stay out in the evenings anyway. To get away from Sam, the younger boy had always thought. Of course, _now_ , he could see why Dean had. The fear of being returned to the auctions would have meant that he didn't dare to even _think_ of disobeying his master.

But it had still _hurt_.

Had still felt like rejection. And still was a good reason enough for him to start to wish he could leave. But he had missed Dean's always so strong arms at night, and his warmth. And the way he smelled of the Impala and gun oil and his own natural musky scent. Sam had tried to convince himself that he hadn't missed any of it: that it was weird, and wrong, and warped, and sick.

But he had _missed_ his _brother_.

And when he had woken in the early hours of that night, still groggy from the last throes of the whisky and the last remnants of the migraine, he hadn't thought twice about following his instinct and going to find him. Although he had quickly realised that the days of _him_ lying in _Dean's_ arms were long gone, unless he wanted to spend most of the night with his long legs dangling nearly fully over the end of the bed.

But the other way: with _his_ arms around _Dean? That_ had worked. The same warmth, the same comfort, the same security. And the pride that he had felt when his brother had simply trusted him enough to just settle back into sleep? He had never felt anything like that trust even with Jess: that was just cuddling, it may have been intimate, extremely enjoyable, and the start and finish of great sex, but it was just cuddling all the same.

But that night he had lain awake for a long while, intently watching Dean actually sleep without being troubled by bad dreams, before falling into an unusually deep and dreamless sleep of his own.

No, Sam had been thinking this through and he had realised what he wanted to do: he wanted to somehow give Dean that same assurance that Dean had always given him as a child; that same constancy, that same security; that same feeling of protection that his brother's arms had always held for Sam and still did. He wanted to be the somewhere that Dean felt _safe_.

But he didn't know if he could ever dare suggest it, that sometimes, not always, not _every_ night, but sometimes, if Dean ever needed it... he didn't know how the other might react. Would he feel there was something really, _really_ wrong with Sam in the sickest sort of way possible? Would he feel it was an order? An order to come to bed by his master, wasn't that exactly what _that_ _man_ had intended? Would Sam be able to explain that he had a completely different reason? Or, Sam worried, had Dean simply been through too much bad in his life that the two intents would just be put into the one box in his head, and he definitely did _not_ want his big brother to think of him in the same terms as he thought of those men whoever they were. And how would _Bobby_ react if he caught them in one bed no matter what the reason? Sam wondered _himself_ if he was sick in the head for thinking it: for wanting to be in his brother's bed, to hold him at night, to allow him to relax enough to sleep.

And to allow Sam to sleep as well, without his usual nightmares about Jess or horrors about what might still be to come before they managed to finally end this whole terrible situation with the yellow-eyed bastard.

He needed to somehow talk to Dean about it. Perhaps one day when the Impala was fixed and they were back on the road on their own again?

Or perhaps simply never.

And as he pondered and worried so the week went on, and they settled into a routine of sorts.

Dean was concentrating on fixing the Impala: his time could be defined as being fairly evenly split three ways; working on his Baby; looking up spare parts on the internet to buy for his Baby; and eating, sleeping (as much as Dean was able to sleep), and helping Bobby with whatever the old man needed help with.

The working bit of it proved at first to be hard, physical, manual-labouring work, and originally Sam tried to help. But he quickly came to the realisation that Dean would be far better, and far happier, working on it himself. And he knew Dean had come to the same conclusion probably even quicker. It wasn't that he wasn't _capable_ of working physically: it was more that he really did _not_ have a clue what he was doing. No. Sam would wait until he could hand Dean the designated tools as asked for from his or Bobby's full tool boxes: he could at least be helpful then.

So he took the (first not so and then _extremely_ obvious) hints to go away and leave his brother to his work. At least he could admire him while he kicked at, and walloped with a sledge-hammer, and pounded the pieces back into something like the shape that they had been in before the crash. And slowly, steadily, with back-breaking persistence, something that looked like the old Impala rose from the debris.

Sam's routine therefore was even more simple: to learn as much as he could from Bobby's tremendous collection of old books while he was able to; to regularly supply his brother with cold drinks, clean rags and nag him to replenish his sunscreen because he was pretty much outside all day, every day, in the full glare of the sun; and to help Bobby with whatever the old man needed help with.

And to try and remember the symbol on that man's ring and cuff-links. Because no matter how much Dean had wanted him to leave it alone, there was no _way_ Sam was going to. That bastard had hurt his brother. And hurt him in other ways as well. And Sam was going to at least find out who he was, if only he could remember that symbol on the jewellery. He was so angry at himself: he had _noticed_ it on both pieces but not _seen_ it. And as he prided himself on his ability to visualise and recall details it had become something of an obsession for him, as well as a matter of getting possible revenge for his brother.

He was sitting idly sketching it out yet again, trying to remember the shapes, the form, if there were any straight lines, when he heard footsteps approach. Quickly he hid his sketches beneath an old book in case, but on looking up was relieved that it was Bobby, not Dean, standing there.

The older man watched him cautiously. "Careful _he_ don't see you doing that, boy."

Sam reddened: "I don't, I just..."

"You and me both, Sam. I'd like to have just a few minutes alone with that bastard as well without his goons. But. Dean wants it left. This is something he doesn't want us involved in. We have to accept that."

"Yeah. I guess. Okay, Bobby."

"At least just be ready to hide it better than that, Sam!" The young man had to smile: Bobby _really_ did know him so well. "Do you fancy giving me a hand to remove the radiator on that old cadillac up by the gate? I'd ask Dean, but he's busy trying to put the cylinder head on the Impala back together."

"Sure thing." Sam followed him outside willingly. This would also give him a chance to speak to Bobby about something else that had been bothering him.

Sam could see how impressed the older man was by how hard Dean had been committed to working on the Impala, and really the skill needed, work ethic shown and sheer speed in putting it back together had more than impressed Sam about his brother as well! But he also knew that any praise from _him_ was just treated as so much noise and dismissed, whereas if it were _Bobby_ saying it...

He just wished the man would say it out loud to Dean as he knew it would mean everything to his brother: he held the man in the same high regard as he had their dad.

Bobby listened as he tried to explain. "Of course, I can _tell_ him, Sam. But he _knows_ I love him. He _knows_ how proud I always am of him."

"I'm not sure he does, Bobby. I don't think he realised that _dad_ loved him. Because he did: now I've had a chance to think back on things, he really _did_ love Dean, he was just awful about telling him that. And to be honest, I don't think Dean knows how much _I_ love him. He has no self-worth at all. Not only because of...what he is, but because we've all been so fucking useless at _telling_ him!"

"Son of a..." Bobby had to momentarily blink away some dust that had blown into his eye. "You're right, Sam. I'll start making sure he knows how proud I am: that's a damn fine job he's doing on that car. Damn fine."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"And Sam? Watch your mouth."

"Sorry Bobby."

"Now hand me that socket wrench while I...What the? Sam?" The other immediately looked up from searching the tool box for whatever a socket wrench was and followed where he was looking.

There was a limousine. Parked on a very rough, small track that ran down the side of Bobby's property, out of view of the main house. A track so rough that even Bobby had grumbled about having to take his old pick-up down it. But now there was a limousine parked along it. A black, stretch limousine, gleaming as if it had only just been polished despite the dusty, bumpy track that it had just been driven down. Gleaming chrome bumpers, blackened windows. Just parked on the track.

"Now what in God's name is _that_ thing doing there?"

"How did it even get there?"

"It's not moving, they can't be lost. And why turn down there? It'd be smoother to try and ride a wild grizzly than take a vehicle down there! Especially a vehicle like that!"

"So why is it there?"

They were both moving forward to the edge of Bobby's perimeter fence while trying to work this out. The only thing for sure was that the limousine was there deliberately because it wasn't somewhere that anyone would end up accidentally. But why...?

And then as they got closer, a glimpse between some of the stacks of cars in Bobby's yard suddenly gave them the clue.

The Impala.

And Dean.

He was still working under the bonnet and was having to lean right into it to try to tighten, or loosen, or do whatever he was pre-occupied in doing. He had gotten so hot in the process that he had undone the top half of his coveralls and tied the sleeves around his waist. And then that hadn't been enough so the t-shirt beneath had gone as well, leaving him topless as he concentrated on putting his Baby back together.

As he worked, Sam and Bobby could see every single muscle rippling in his back. Even the scars that marked his body were being highlighted by every twist and flex of motion as he fought the stubbornly immovable pieces of the damaged engine, and every inch of his skin was glistening from his own sweat in the bright sunlight as if he were covered in golden oiled glitter. There wasn't a trace of fat on him anywhere, just solid, ripped flesh. And then there was his ass as he bent to reach right to the rear of the engine...

"The fucking bastard's watching him!"

Bobby was right, Sam realised. Whoever was in the limousine had stopped deliberately so as to give them a perfect vantage point of where his brother was working, but was far enough away so as not to be immediately noticeable should he happen to sense eyes on him. _They_ would probably have binoculars: _he_ would have been hampered by looking through stacks of cars from a lower position. It was only that Bobby and Sam had walked up the rough ground to the gate that they had noticed the presence of the unwanted visitor.

"Where's the shotgun? I didn't bring my shotgun with me! I'll kill the bastard!"

Sam wasn't sure which of the two of them was the most angry. He himself was already running down between the stacks to his brother to warn him of the intrusion. He could hear Bobby cussing and following behind him as quickly as he could.

"Dean! Dean."

The other turned, immediately alert and ready for…whatever Sam was so worked up about. "What is it?"

"You're being watched! Someone's parked out there!"

"What?" But it wasn't a response that conveyed complete surprise. Sam came to an immediate halt and stared at him.

"You knew!"

Dean realised what he had done and went red in the face. To try and give himself a moment to think he caught at his discarded t-shirt and used it to wipe the worst of his perspiration away from his face and back. By this time Bobby had caught up with Sam and also paused, feeling the sudden tension between the two younger men.

"How long has it been there?"

"Sam?" This was Bobby.

"How long, Dean? How long have you known that they've been watching you? How long?"

"I…"

"And were you going to tell us? At all? Is it that man from the bar? Tell me!" Sam towered over him angrily as Dean tried to look away. "And why? Why are you not wearing anything?" He now had a tight grip on Dean's arm and his sudden loss of temper was surprising both the other men.

His brother tried to prise his large hand from around his bicep. "I've been concentrating on doing the Impala, Sam! And I took _this_ " he held up the soaking wet t-shirt "off because it's wet through and as filthy as the rest of me! And yes, that fucking car's been there on and off for the past few days! Why do you think I'm killing myself trying to get Baby back on the road so we can get away from it! And no, I didn't realise he was there today: he must have arrived just now. I've been busy on the _car_!"

"Get inside!"

"What?"

"Get in the house! Now!"

Dean stared at him: his face incredulous. So did Bobby but he knew to remain silent as the brothers… No, as Sam asserted his authority over Dean. He wondered if the other would argue, but instead the older of the two boys fought down any response, stepped sharply back to pull himself clear finally of Sam's strong grasp, and moved past without looking at either of them to go towards the house. Bobby could see anger coiled in every flex of his still naked back as he walked away, but he obeyed the order.

"Sam?" Bobby kept his voice deliberately low.

"That bastard's been there all the time, Bobby. And Dean hasn't wanted to tell us. I'm going to find who it is and kill him!" He started towards the gate as if to go out and face down the occupant of the limousine.

Bobby caught at him in worry: "Just calm down, Sam."

"What if he'd taken him, Bobby! What if one day I'd come out and Dean had gone? I don't even know who that bastard is! Dean won't tell me! How can I keep him safe if he won't _let_ me?"

He was still only halfway to the opening by then, but paused as the limousine suddenly began to reverse back up the track, seeming to be running on the lumpy dirt as smoothly as it would have done on a city street.

"Jesus, what sort of suspension do they have on that thing?" Despite his anger, Bobby had to admire. "And you can hardly _hear_ the engine!"

"Bobby, I don't _care_ about the fucking engine! It's after my brother!" Sam was fighting off tears of anger and worry. Bobby looked at him with a sigh.

"Well, it's gone now, Sam. And Dean's safe inside." The limousine was now back on to the smooth tarmac of the main road and pulling away out of sight.

"Yeah. Yeah I guess. Shit Bobby. I didn't mean to yell at him like that! Do you think he's gonna be mad at me?"

"I think you surprised the both of us, Sam. But. You're his master! Whether you wanted the job or not! And he'll do anything for you anyway, you know that." He paused, "And he'd do anything to keep _you_ safe. Without hesitation, or thought for himself."

"I know, Bobby. And I hate it. Hate what he is. Hate what he's had to do. Shit, what a mess."


	10. Present Or Past?

PRESENT OR PAST?

(I am not a mechanic, I apologise to all mechanics! Please don't hate me!)

The package had been left right outside the back door. Bobby stared at it in disbelief: somebody had come right up to his house during the night and left a parcel right outside the goddam back door! A package addressed simply to 'Dean Winchester.' No address, no 'return to sender', just the two words written in an almost calligraphic flourish.

The older man sidestepped it cautiously and went to check on Rumsfeld. He was relieved as well as irritated to find the dog alive but asleep in his kennel, the clue of what had happened in the incriminating bony remains of a t-bone steak beside the snoring animal.

"Fat lot of use you were, ya good-for nuttin…. I may have you to protect me from monsters, but I don't expect you to let _people_ walk right past you instead!" He left him to sleep the drugged meal off and retraced his steps to the house.

He wasn't surprised to see that Dean was already up and grabbing some coffee from the kitchen when he opened the door. Since the revelation about him had come out, Dean had spent just about every waking hour working on the Impala in some form or other, with the exception of yesterday of course. Bobby could understand both the boys' point of view: Dean was desperate to get the car finished because of the watching eyes on him, while Sam was now getting increasingly paranoid about his brother being out of his sight for the same reason. Today was going to be interesting and not in a good way.

"This came for you." He held out the parcel and watched the other's reaction.

Dean glanced at it then did a double take as he obviously recognised the small but fancy handwriting. His face noticeably paled but he said nothing as he took the package from Bobby and ripped into the wrapping without hesitation.

Inside was a carved, lidded wooden box. And inside the box, nestling in red velvet padded luxury was a seductively curved dagger in a beautifully ornate scabbard, the blade sharp and shining as if it had only just been created from the high quality silver that had been used, and engraved with Islamic symbols all down the thicker edge; the ivory handle was interlaid with ebony; the silver and wooden scabbard carved and engraved on every inch with geometric patterns. The whole thing was weighted beautifully to be of maximum use for least effort in the hand. It was an item of exquisite quality, obviously rare, and presumably very expensive.

"Shit." Bobby barely caught the word that escaped amidst Dean's deep inhale of breath.

"Is it from _him_?"

"Not a word to Sam. _Please_ Bobby." And Dean was screwing up the packaging quickly and hurrying out of the door to burn it in the portable incinerator. Bobby stood at the open door and watched him catch it with his lighter, torn between the two feelings of being desperate to know and wishing that he never would at the same time. Only when he was sure that it had all been destroyed did Dean return to the kitchen and begin to examine the blade.

"Was there a note?" But Bobby already knew the answer even before the younger man glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. No note had been needed: whatever the message was, it had got through.

And then Sam was there, yawning and stretching his long arms and looking reproachfully at his brother. "I told you to _wake_ me: I'm coming to help you with the car from now on. What's that?"

Dean glared at Bobby momentarily as he held out the box. "Just came in the mail. Must have been following me around the country for a while."

Sam put down his full mug of coffee and took the box with a frown. His eyes lit up at the beauty of the weapon within and his voice turned reverent. "What is it?"

Bobby bit down his sigh as Dean's face immediately relaxed into a wide grin at the sight of his little brother's appreciation of the dagger. "You like it, Sammy? It's a Persian Zirah-bhonk, originally created to go though chainmail but used by an Iman a couple of centuries ago for the annual Eid el-Adha. Dad was trying to negotiate to get it, but that was way before he disappeared even. I'd forgotten about it. But it should kill most things, being holy _and_ silver. He must have really called in a few favours to find it."

"Oh it's beautiful! Look at the workmanship on it. And the history! How old is it?"

"Not sure. Might be a few centuries, perhaps back to the Crusades even. But it'll do us!"

"Oh, it's more than 'it'll do'! How on earth did dad manage to get hold of something like this? He must have called in more than a few favours!"

Dean shrugged, sent another warning glance at Bobby. "We'll probably never know. You want to research it while I start on the car?"

"Yes. No!" Sam had been distracted but not quite enough. "I don't like you out there on your own, Dean. Not now."

"How's about _I_ help him, Sam? The work will go quicker with two of us, and, how do I say this? You're _useless_ when it comes to engines!"

Despite himself Sam laughed before immediately returning his appreciative attention to the dagger. "Okay. I'll bring you both out drinks in a while. Thanks Bobby. Wow, I can't believe dad managed to find this!"

"I can't believe your dad did either, boy." Bobby murmured to Dean as they both went out the door.

But he didn't ask and the other didn't tell. Although Bobby was desperate _to_ ask: not just about this, but what had happened the previous night. Because something had happened, he had heard the boys arguing about it. No, he had heard _Dean_ trying to argue, and Sam was having none of it, whatever 'it' was.

But it had been a strange conversation.

He had expected a full-scale argument to break out when Sam had managed to get himself calm enough to follow Dean into the house the previous day. But instead he had simply gone to sit at the kitchen table and watched while Dean had stood at the kitchen sink and scrubbed to remove the rest of the oil and grease on his hands.

Neither had spoken for a long time, and neither had Bobby. Not until Dean had felt he had got the worst off, and the obvious tension in his still bare back had mostly dissipated, and he finally felt enough in control of himself to turn and face Sam, wiping his hands on a filthy old towel as he did.

Only then had Sam broken the silence. "Is that… _Him_ … in the car?"

His brother sighed and remained silent for a moment: "I'm not sure, Sam. He has a limo like that, but so does…. It might not have been."

"It could have been this other man that you mentioned in the bar?"

Dean shrugged but didn't answer.

"But whoever it is, they've been watching you since we got back here? Dean?"

The other studied his dirty and broken fingernails. "Yeah. Not all the time. Just occasionally, just to let me know they were there. I didn't want to worry you."

Sam bit at his bottom lip so hard that Bobby could see a small trickle of blood escape his mouth. "It's my _job_ to worry about you, Dean. And I _do_! I can't _bear_ the thought of you being hurt, especially not by people like that! I won't fucking _let_ them hurt you! But _please_! You have to help me: just tell me when something's worrying you. _Please_."

"Yeah okay Sammy."

The younger brother sighed in exasperation and exchanged a look with Bobby: they both recognised the insincerity in that promise. Sam decided to leave it for the moment. "Look. Go and get a shower. Call that it for the day. I'll help Bobby get dinner ready."

"I left the hood up on Baby, Sam. And my tools are all out."

"I put them back for you." Bobby finally spoke up. "And your car's secure."

The glance Dean flashed him wasn't a grateful one, but he went upstairs to the bathroom without any more argument. His younger brother sighed and scrubbed at his face with his hands. There was a long silence in the kitchen.

Finally: "What do'ya fancy then, Sam?" as Bobby opened the cupboards. He glanced around to see why there was no response, only to find himself suddenly on his own. Grabbing out some packets, he set some water to boil. Then curiosity had gotten the better of him and he followed the two boys up the stairs.

Dean had turned the water off by the time he had crept to the top of them. Bobby paused there as he could see Sam waiting right outside the bathroom. The moment Dean opened the door he was grabbed by one of his brother's large hands and marched with forceful determination to the small bedroom. "Sam?"

"Get in there! And just listen!" The door was shut behind them as Bobby crept closer to listen. He had felt guilty about eavesdropping, but there was something….

He could hardly hear anything for a few minutes then Dean's voice, rising in disbelief. "You're _serious_ , Sam? You _can't_ be! This is crazy!"

"You tell me you didn't sleep the best you have for ages?"

"Yes, but….. No. No! _Not_ happening!"

"Yes it is. No argument, Dean. It _is_ happening, starting tonight! I need to know you're safe! And if we do this then I will! Plus I think it will be good for the both of us. And if you hate it, then the moment we're out of here and away from Bobby's where they can't find you then you don't have to. But _here_? You _are_ going to."

"But…"

"No buts. Look." Sam's voice turned cajoling. There was a thud against the bedroom door as if one of them had been physically backed into it. "Dean, you're my brother. You will _always_ be my brother, no matter what. And I know you've always looked after me, but now it's my turn to look after you! So please... _Let_ me. I'm not going to let them take you, so just tell me when they're around, or if there's something I should know. _Please_. And, yes, from now on you are in _this_ room, safe at night, _every_ night. And I'll be there as well to make sure: I'll tell Bobby I'm bringing the cot up here."

"Yes, but." He was hesitating. Bobby had to almost put his ear to the door to hear him now.

"Dean. Trust me."

"I always have done, Sam. I always will." It was barely more than a whisper through the wood. Bobby strained his ears. "But."

"Enough Dean." Sam's voice was also low but close through the door, as if he were leaning over and talking right beside his brother's ear. "You're doing this. Just let me keep you safe. Okay?" There was a pause. " _Okay_?"

Finally a deep sigh and then Dean's raspy voice. "Okay." He didn't sound happy about whatever it was. Bobby decided to move away from the door, suddenly conscious of how it would look if the boys emerged, and headed back downstairs to cook something to eat.

He hadn't mentioned anything when first Sam and then Dean had come to help with the meal. They had eaten in relative silence. But it had been a _strange_ silence, and Bobby still wanted to know what they had been disagreeing about to have caused it. And then this? This unexplained parcel? But he couldn't bring himself to ask about either.

They had made good progress on the cylinder head and had started to try and replace the destroyed pistons with some of the new parts ordered when Sam came out with some cool drinks for them. He seemed in a good mood considering the events of the past week or so, and Bobby had to smile at the eager young man as he offered the tray to him. The he wandered around to the other side of the car to wait for Dean to come out from beneath the car as Bobby stepped away for a moment into the shade.

"Damn crankshaft's bent, I'll have to get it out! No wonder they're not fitting right!"

Dean was sliding out with an explosion of annoyance and took the chance to stand up and rest his already aching back. Bobby sighed and moved to join him. "There's a couple more chevrolets in the yard. One of those might fit. I'll have a look."

""Yeah, I'll come."

"Grab a drink first. And have you put sunscreen on this morning?"

"Jeez, Sam, what are you? My mom?"

"Idgits." And Bobby began to walk away from the two of them. The he decided it would be more sensible to wait for Dean as he could climb up any stacks as necessary to see if any parts were suitable, so he returned to the Impala, walking around the rear of it.

He paused though when Sam good-naturedly butted his brother's back with his large shoulder and caused him to cough and spill his drink over himself. "Sam! What's with you?"

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah, I... guess. But..?"

And then he looked up from trying to wipe his t-shirt off and was caught in the full force of his younger brother's dimpled smile. Bobby stood at the back of the car and watched Dean's bad mood melt away at the sight, and thought not for the first time that Sam had got him wrapped round his little finger _and_ the younger man knew it.

"Okay." Dean was conceding. "I slept well. But it's still weird."

"We'll get used to it. Now, sunscreen!" And with another shoulder-butt, this one hard enough to knock Dean forwards a step or two, he was pushing the bottle into his brother's greasy hand and returning to the house.

It was some time later that he returned. "I got something: it's one of dad's old phones. It took me a while but I cracked his voice mail code. Listen to this."

"Who's Ellen?"

"I don't know, but I got an address."

The box with the dagger was laying where they had left it in the main room when they returned, having found and met both Ellen, her daughter Jo, and Ash, as well as getting sidetracked by a successful hunt for a Rakshasa.

"I'm going to take a shower." Sam declared.

Bobby watched from where he was sitting at the table as Dean stared at the box, his expression an impenetrable mask.

"Can't we send it back? Tell...whoever it is that it's no longer needed"

"It don't work like that, Bobby. Their side of the deal has been kept so..."

"But _you're_ the payment, aren't you boy? That aint right." He paused. "Is it _Him_? Is it _him_ you'll have to ..."

Dean shrugged and shook his head wearily. "No time like the present. Can I borrow the car again? Just tell Sam an old friend called with a problem that needed sorting and I had to go."

"He aint gonna be happy about this, Dean."

"You think _I_ am, Bobby?"

"If we told him...perhaps he could stop it! John's dead, you can't be held to a deal a dead man made!"

"Bobby! You've seen these people! I." Dean fought down his sudden anger and tried to speak calmly. "It doesn't work like that. Payment has to be made. And I don't want Sam or you involved with this. _Please_." The last was a direct plea to the older man.

Bobby sighed and nodded unwillingly. "I can't lie to him if he works it out, Dean."

"I know Bobby."

"Why don't you wait until the morning? Get a good night's sleep first. Say the call came first thing."

Dean gave him a slight tired smile and nodded. "Okay, Bobby. I'm just going to check the Impala before I turn in. Don't wait up."

Without another word he was gone through the back door and out into the yard. Bobby sighed and poured himself another coffee, wishing that he could think of someway, somehow to help Dean. The whole situation was beyond anything that he could have dreamt of in his nightmares.

His thoughts were disturbed by noises from outside in the yard. Bobby frowned and got up to cross to the back door, where he stood and listened for a while. It sounded like...it sounded just as it had when Dean had been pounding the Impala back into shape. Except that he had all but finished that now, and anyway why would he be doing something like that now? He would be more likely to break something in his present state of mind...

And then it came to Bobby with sudden clarity. It _was_ Dean making the noise. And he was taking out his frustration and his buried hatred and pain, and shame, and probably grief, out on the Impala. Bobby could hear the glass breaking in all the windows now. With an exclamation he began to hurry to stop the boy from destroying his car all over again.

Then he just as suddenly came to a stop.

 _His_ car.

The Impala was the only thing that Dean owned: John had given it to him, had it included on his deeds as belonging to him and Sam had made sure it had stayed there when he had registered his claim on his brother. It was the only thing that _was_ Dean's. He would never be allowed to own any form of weaponry as a slave. And the chance of him owning property or anything else of any importance in the future was so unlikely as to be unthinkable.

It was _only_ the car that was his. And therefore it was the only thing that he _could_ take his frustration out on, the only thing that nobody could hold against him as it was _his_ to destroy if he wanted. And if Bobby ran out like he had so nearly done and stopped him, then he would be taking that one bit of control that Dean had in his life over something, possibly the _only_ thing in this whole terrible situation that Dean had _any_ control over, away from him. And Bobby couldn't do that. Not to Dean. It just wouldn't have been fair on him, not after everything else.

And so instead Bobby returned to the table and his now cold coffee, and just sat and listened to the crashes and smashing sounds that came from outside.

And it goddam broke his heart.


	11. Six Days

Thankyou so much for all the lovely comments. I didn't realise how many chapters it would take me just to get here, but to know that people are enjoying it means a lot : )

SIX DAYS

Sam yet again glanced over at his brother instead of watching the road ahead. The other was huddled in the passenger seat, his face turned defiantly away from Sam to stare out of the side window, deep within his own thoughts. He had spoken so few words to Sam since the younger man had finally managed to track him down the previous day, and was showing no signs that that was going to change any time soon.

Sam thought for a moment, then reached his long right arm so he could cover Dean's left hand with his own larger one. He meant it to be taken for support, for acknowledgement that words didn't matter as long as his brother knew he was there, but Dean flinched at the touch, glanced down and removed his own hand immediately to lay across his own right knee and out of reach of Sam when he was driving.

The younger man sighed but he couldn't blame the other. He might have an idea of what had happened the last few days, but he would probably never truly know. And he wasn't sure that he would ever want to.

This last week had seemed one of the longest of his life. They had returned from talking to Ash with new hope that they could find the yellow-eyed demon, and Sam had new hope that now he _knew_ Dean was being watched he would be able to keep him safe. Just as long as his brother would actually _tell_ him if he saw anyone around. But he was hopeful that if he kept on enough at him, and kept a far better eye on Dean as well, then he would be safe from _that_ _man._ For the first time since their dad had died, he had gone to bed that night in an optimistic mood.

A mood that had only got better when Dean had followed his instructions without complaint for the first time and joined him in the small bed. He had even not grumbled when Sam had wrapped himself around him, but instead had actually put his own arms over his brother's and held them even tighter to him, almost as if afraid that that might be the last time he ever would. Sam had been wondering about it when he was falling asleep, but he would wait and ask in the morning….

Only to find that Dean had gone. At some point in the night he had taken the old car and left, to god knows where and for why.

Sam had awakened, surprised and more than a little annoyed to find himself alone in the bed when he had given specific instructions to his brother to _wake_ him. He had hurriedly dressed and run outside, determined to help Dean finish the Impala. Only to find it in a far worse state than it had been the day before and no sign of his brother.

Bobby had come running at the sound of his panic. "They've taken Dean! They've smashed the car and taken Dean!" He was already back in the house, finding his weaponry: as many guns and ammunition as he could. "Dean's gone!"

"I know he has, Sam." Bobby's quiet voice stopped him in his tracks. "But he hasn't been stolen from you. The old car's gone. He said he was going last night."

" _What_? What are you _talking_ about? And what the hell's happened to the Impala: it's….."

"That was your brother last night. He…had more than a few issues he needed to work through and that's the only thing he could take it out on. He said he'd be back as soon as he could."

Sam was pissed. His language was as bad as his mood, and he _wasn't_ going to apologise to Bobby for what he said to him about trust, and how _he_ was responsible for Dean not the old man, and how he _shouldn't_ be backing Dean up because it wasn't his _place_ any more, but all with a few more words involved. And Bobby stood quietly and sadly, and took all of his abuse.

Then Sam had tried to call Dean on his phone, but his brother had turned his off, and instead he had thrown a few things around the small bedroom, and tried to call Dean again, and sworn some more and determined to do _something_ to get his brother under control. How _dare_ he just go off somewhere: wasn't he worried at all by being watched? What the _hell_ was he thinking? Sam just couldn't understand it at all.

Then because he couldn't do anything, and didn't know what to do anyway, he had ignored Bobby for the rest of the day and instead had spent the entirety of it on his laptop trying to trace any sign of the car, or any symbol or emblem or _anything_ matching that man's ring that he could think of, and trying Dean's cell phone at least twice an hour, every hour.

Finally he had pulled across the box with the dagger and began to research about the weapon.

Bobby had been sitting at the table watching him by this time. He could tell the exact moment that he made the connection between its arrival and his brother's disappearance.

Sam had been muttering away to himself in vicious frustration: "Look at the price of something like this! This is rare! Even a new copy is in the hundreds... how could dad ever have afforded something like this? And who could he have called in favours from? Nobody liked the man: he'd fallen out with everyone! I never thought I'd miss him as much as I do, but, the man was a bastard. Lying to me about Dean like that. Using him as a trade for..."

All the colour suddenly drained from the young man's face. Bobby thought he was going to collapse as the last vestige of youthful naivety was ripped away from him. " _Dean's_ the trade for this, isn't he?"His voice had suddenly gotten barely louder than a whisper. "My dad traded my brother for a night, or longer, with a man like _that_ man for this...thing. That's where Dean's gone, isn't it? _Isn't_ it, Bobby? Why the hell didn't you _tell_ me? Why didn't _he_?"

The expression of sheer horror on his face would remain with Bobby for the remainder of his life. "Oh God, where has he gone, Bobby? I've got to stop him! We could give the dagger back..."

The old man sighed. "I suggested that already, Sam. But he said it was too late, that their part of the deal has been done. Even if we threw the thing in the trash, they had done _their_ part! Dean just wanted to get _his_ part over with..."

"And you just let him go, Bobby?!"

"I didn't _want_ to, Sam. I hate this. I hate the thought of... But he knew the moment he opened that package. He _knew_ he didn't have a choice or they'd be coming here..."

"There must be a return address! We could send it back! Say it never got here! Where's what it came in?"

"There was nothing, Sam. It was hand-delivered. Right outside the door there. They know Dean got the dagger alright."

Sam stared at him. Bobby would never forget _that_ expression for as long as he lived either.

"Are you telling me... they came right to the door?" This was said in a definite growl of anger that Bobby felt through his entire body. "To _here_? What about the dog, I thought he was a _guard_ dog?"

"They drugged him. And he's old and wary of everything after that demon bitch threw him across the yard and broke his leg."

"But they came _here_? Right up and into the yard and _here_? They could have bust in, right into the house! My god, I've been afraid of monsters all my life, and all along it's been fucking _humans_ that are after my brother and I can't protect him from them!"

"He doesn't want you to, Sam. He wants you to stay out of it and be safe."

"Like I'm gonna do that, Bobby! Are you? Now you know about him? Are _you_ going to stay out of it?"

"No Sam. No I'm not." The older man lowered his head. "And I tried to stop him, wanted him to tell you, but he was worried they'd come for him anyway and you'd try and get in the way." He paused, felt tears prick as he sighed. "I'd hoped it was over when you registered him. Probably so did he. And then that damned parcel arrived and... God knows _what_ he must have been thinking about it all."

"That's why he smashed the car up last night." Sam flinched suddenly at another thought, and if it were possible, paled even more to an almost grey colour. "He let me hold him last night, Bobby. As if he knew he might not be coming back. I've got to find him, Bobby. And I've got to find a way to stop this. How do I _stop_ this, Bobby?"

"Hold him how, Sam? Never mind, it don't matter. I don't know, Sam, but we will. And once he returns, we'll find a way to keep him out of the hands of those men and to keep him safe."

But it had been another six days before they finally heard from Dean.

Six days that neither of them had hardly eaten or slept during, and were both too afraid to say out loud what they had been each secretly dreading. In the end, it was just a simple text to Bobby's cell phone: _Back in a couple of days, tell Sam not to worry_.

Sam immediately had been _frantic_.

"He would have come straight back if he could have, not texted. He's hurt and laying up somewhere so I don't know how bad he is." He was already fiddling with his laptop as he was speaking, his long fingers flying over the screen faster than Bobby could watch. "Damn it, Dean Winchester, if you've turned your phone off on me again, I _swear_ I'm gonna... There!"

"What's that, Sam?"

"GPS signal. From his phone. It's locating him."

"I thought you needed a password to do that? Surely only Dean would have it? How did you...?"

"Oh I hacked into his phone months ago. He's in California! Can I borrow your van, Bobby?"

"No, but you can drive us."

"I'm telling you he's hurt, Bobby. I might have to stay with him a while."

"Then you'll need someone else to drive his old heap back. I'm coming Sam. No argument."

It had been a long, hard, best part of a twenty-four hours straight drive through the night to get there. Sam kept checking the satellite signal, but Dean, or his phone at least, hadn't moved in the meantime. They followed it to California, then eventually the grid on the screen had magnified into a county, then a road map of a town, until by the next evening they had followed it straight to a small motel where there found the old car parked.

Bobby went to make enquiries at the desk.

"They recognised him. Arrived here five days ago. Paid straight up for a week. Went off in a smart black limousine that evening, they couldn't see who was in it. They saw the limousine again early yesterday but didn't notice if he's returned yet. Room 12a on the first floor. I've got us a room further along."

Sam picked the lock of door marked 12a while Bobby stood guard.

Bobby had had a long hunting career, and Sam a short intense one. They had both seen some terrible things that would haunt them for probably the rest of their lives. But neither had been prepared for entering that room.

The smell of stale blood had hit them the moment they entered. The beams of their flashlights had revealed Dean to be beneath the covers on the bed. Sam hurried to check his pulse and was relieved to find him alive but as near to being unconscious as it was possible to get. An open container of maximum strength, over the counter, pain-killers on the bedside table was probably part of the cause of that.

While Bobby hurriedly counted how many were missing from the bottle, Sam was pulling the sticking sheets down from his brother's back. He had winced and looked up at Bobby, his eyes wide with horror.

They had both studied the bruises and dark welts that once again Dean was covered in: there were vivid ligature marks around his neck and wrists where it looked as if manacles and, Bobby had felt his stomach twist and lurch inside him, it looked like a tight collar of some sort as well had been used to restrain him. He had obviously been snake-whipped as well as beaten. But there had been nothing done that would permanently mark the skin; nothing deep enough to cause a scar; nothing that a slave-owner could sue for damage to his _property_ for: whoever it was that had done this had been in complete control and knew what they were doing.

Sam hesitantly pulled the sheets lower: the staining on the bed and Dean's clothes showed where the aroma of blood was coming from. Bobby felt bile start to rise uncontrollably as he not only took in the scene on the bed, but also the expression on the younger man's face as he visualised what had been taken as 'payment' for that dagger. Suddenly the fate of the yellow-eyed demon that had killed their mom and dad, as well as his girlfriend, was looking safe in comparison to what was to come to the man that had hurt his brother.

Sam had motioned for him to return to the door where they had conversed in whispers.

"I don't think he's overdosed, Sam. They're just strong meds, but he looks like he needed them."

"I'm not going to try and move him, Bobby. I'll see how he is when he wakes up. I'm staying here with him."

"I guessed you would, boy. I'll bring you some food."

"No. I just want to see he's okay first. I... thanks, Bobby. I'm sorry for how I've been, I didn't mean to say all those things..." Sam hesitated but then couldn't hold his anger inside any longer. "I'm going to _get_ this bastard, Bobby."

The older man had studied his face: he could suddenly see John in the young man, he had the same single-minded hatred in his eyes. Bobby could only pray that he wouldn't throw away everything else that he had as his father had done, just to get revenge.

"You and me both, Sam. Text if you need anything."

Sam had closed and locked the door behind the older man and shrugged off his shoes and enough clothes to climb into bed with his brother, ignoring the stained and sticky sheets without a single thought about them. All that mattered was that he be in physical contact with Dean and to try and reassure him somehow that he wasn't alone anymore.

His brother stirred a little as his long arm wound round his waist. "Sam?" The other could hardly hear him, his voice was so cracked and pained.

"Shush. Yeah, it's me. As soon as you're well enough, I'm gonna kill you. But now just go back to sleep."

"Sammy, I ..."

"Shush, don't you worry: I'm going to find who did this and take care of them."

"No, Sam." Dean was trying to wake himself up enough to argue. "This was dad! _He_ made the deal. You're not to do _anything_. You're _mine_ to protect, and I'm telling you to let it go."

"Go back to sleep, Dean. You're safe now, I'm here." He had tightened his arms, pulled Dean's battered and bruised body to his chest and felt him relax with the warmth and the contact between them. Soon Dean was breathing regularly again as healing sleep once more overtook him.

Sam had watched him for a long time, scared of looking away in case this had just been a horrific dream that he had found him and not reality. Eventually he had nuzzled Dean's ear with his lips before trying to get some sleep himself: "And you're mine to _love_ ," he had finally responded. "And as for letting this go? There aint no way in hell!"

All these images were still running through Sam's mind while he was driving Dean back to Bobby's. This time when he reached out his hand to his brother he sharply slapped Dean's leg with the knuckles of his hand. Dean turned immediately to stare at him. Sam wasn't taking a refusal this time: he pointedly held out his hand and indicated for Dean to let him take his own. Dean glared but obeyed, letting Sam lace his long fingers between his own smaller ones and hold them together as one.

"In answer to this morning's: 'why did you even bother to come to find me, Sam?' I always will, Dean. _Always_."

There was no response at all from his brother.

"You okay?"

Dean shrugged, but didn't reply.

" _Dean_?" His tone was sharper than he intended: he could hardly imagine, he didn't _want_ to imagine what the last few days had been like for his brother. He felt even guiltier as Dean sighed, swallowed a couple of times and struggled to respond.

"I'm okay, Sammy," His voice was harsh and wrecked, as if his throat was still incredibly sore inside and causing him a lot of pain. "I'm sorry, I had no choice."

"I know." It was all Sam could manage to say. He wanted to shout. A _lot_. But not at Dean: there was nothing to shout at him about. Well...no, not at that moment anyway. Somehow Sam was going to stop this. "Is that it? Are there any more deals I should know about?"

His brother considered: Sam sighed as he again glanced over and saw how tired and drawn he was. "I don't think so, Sam." He had to stop and try to moisten his throat again before continuing. "But... But I had forgotten _that_ one. I just _hope_ there's not." He paused, his thoughts consuming him. Sam saw his green eyes swim with moisture for a moment "Why did he do it, Sam? Why _save_ me? For _this_? Why couldn't your dad just let me die, then you'd never have had to know about _this_? He could have lived. Why did he _die_ for me?"

He winced as his brother's fingers tightened around his hand, but Sam needed him to listen: he had had the same thought ever since their dad had died and the truth had come out about his brother. And he needed Dean to understand. "He _loved_ you, Dean. He really _did_! And he was _so_ proud of you: you were his _son_. No matter what you think. And _I'm_ so glad he let you live, because _I_ couldn't be without you. Believe me on that."

"He loved me, huh?" The sudden bitterness in Dean's raw voice stunned him." Where am I sleeping tonight, Sam? Like father, like son eh?"

Sam didn't understand. He wasn't sure he _wanted_ to understand. And he was too tired to worry about it. But he continued to hold Dean's hand tight and kept on driving as the other once more turned away to stare out of the window.

Finally they drew up outside Bobby's house. Sam parked and went to help Dean out, but he was ignored as the other painfully pulled himself to his feet.

"Let's get you inside." Sam grabbed the bags and headed for the door. He looked back and swore under his breath as he realised that Dean wasn't following. Instead he had headed off in the direction of the Impala. Sam sighed, threw the bags in through the door of the house and followed him, catching up to where Dean was standing staring at the damaged car.

"Bobby tried to repair some of it for you." Sam murmured. "But he couldn't get the dents out of there. _Or_ there. It looks like you went at it with a crowbar or something. But we swept all the glass out, and replaced the windows…"

"Thanks." For a minute Sam thought Dean was going to fall, he hurriedly put his arm around his waist in support. Dean's eyes were once again tearful. "I never wanted you to know any of this, Sammy. Especially when I became part of the deals… I'm sorry for what I said in the car. I'm sorry for not letting you know I had to…. He should have just let me die. I wish he had."

"I'm glad he didn't. Of the two of you, I need _you_. Come on, let's get you inside."

"Sammy, if I really work hard on Baby, can we get out of here? Please? Just get back to what we were and get away from here?"

Sam smiled down at him. "Of course we can. But _we're_ going to work on the car! And _you're_ going to rest up! But Dean. You've got to tell me _everything_ in future. Whether I like what I hear or not, I have to know, okay?"

"Okay."

"I mean it, Dean. You _tell_ me."

"I will, Sammy."

This time he allowed Sam to help him into the house.

He managed to do as he was told for the rest of that day: he was still in too much pain to argue. But early the next morning found him once again working on the Impala, with his brother appearing an hour or so after with a few curses and threats aimed in his direction.

And a few days very hard work saw the Impala well on her way back to her original pristine shape. He noticed Sam often glance around as they worked, just checking that they were really alone this time. But at least there was no sign of anyone at all watching for now.

And if Dean should just happen to occasionally notice the sun glinting off the lenses of high powered binoculars in the distance, well then, he kept that information to himself.


	12. Forgotten Memories

FORGOTTEN MEMORIES

It was incredible, Sam reflected, just how powerful human senses could be, and how just the slightest thing could trigger such instantaneous memories and emotions. The merest whiff in the breeze of a particular perfume could bring him Jess's smile as clear as if she were standing there in front of him. The 'not quite musty but almost' aroma of an old book transported him mentally to exactly where he was now, in Bobby's house with its piles of fascinating and well cared for volumes.

And the sound of the roar of that engine as if it finally turned over and caught made Sam feel almost tearful because it meant everything would be alright. Because it was _Home_. And Home meant his brother, and security, and strangely and somewhat to his surprise, it meant normality. Not in any way to do with his father, he thought idly as he searched the icebox for the last remaining few cold cans he had been sent inside to fetch, but in every way with his _brother_. The Impala and Dean were the two parts of one complete unit: if he had given up and scrapped the one while Dean was in hospital, it meant he would have been giving up on the other and was preparing for his brother to die also. And he would have never done either, despite any advice to the contrary.

But now he had been vindicated because the one had survived and had brought the other back to life also. And as he stood in Bobby's kitchen and listened to the deep rumble of that engine as she purred her eternal love for her owner, now he could feel that everything would somehow be alright. He would get Dean out of there, hide him away in numerous nondescript motels, make him sleep whichever side of the bed was furthest from the door so _Sam_ could protect _him_.

Yes, Sam thought with a huge sense of relief, it was all going to be okay.

He hurried back with his batch of drinks, biting down a sharp pang of annoyance at seeing Bobby sitting in _his_ side of the car and laughing with his brother, whose relief at bringing his Baby back from the dead with all his hard work was obvious all over his grinning face.

And he _had_ worked hard.

Sam had tried to help, but had quickly realised that even with his full health he couldn't keep up with Dean's strength, grit, bloody-minded determination and, unfortunately as Sam recognised all too well, sheer desperation to get the car fixed and get out of there. Even with all the physical injuries he was carrying.

Sam just wanted to get him somewhere to rest. Somewhere to feel safe, although he didn't know where _anywhere_ could possibly be that his brother might feel safe. If it were Sam, it would be simple: safety was just being with Dean, it always had been. But where could he take _Dean_ for him to feel able to relax? To let him finally have some time to heal? And that was just to help with the wounds and bruises that still covered his body: how Sam was going to help him deal with the mental scars he had no idea. But he knew he would have to somehow, would have to try and make his brother discuss it before all of Dean's internal emotional baggage built up and imploded into extreme irrationality.

But that could all come later: it was enough right now to see him smile genuinely for just about the first time since their father had died. And now Bobby was smiling at Sam through the repaired windscreen and moving to allow him his rightful place beside his brother in the Impala where he belonged. Sam found himself taking a deep breath as he got in: they were _Home_.

"She sounds good!"

Dean grinned at his enthusiasm but shook his head. "Nah. She's trying to be good for me, but she still needs a lot of work, don'tcha, Baby? But I'll get you perfect again." He patted the dashboard lovingly, his eyes giving the lie and showing the strain of emotion that he had been working under. Sam hadn't missed the quick glances at seemingly nothing that his brother gave occasionally and the slight increase of tension that resulted in his body: it didn't matter that Sam himself could never spot what Dean so obviously had, he had such complete trust in his brother's incredible instincts that he had no doubt at all that he was being watched again already. "I'll work on late tonight if that's okay Sam? Perhaps I can get her done for tomorrow if I do."

"As long as you need, Dean. Just don't overdo it: you still won't let me check those wounds on your back…."

"They're fine." But it was too quickly answered, the subject too suddenly changed. Sam sighed, but left it alone as Dean clambered somewhat stiffly out from behind the steering wheel and went to open the bonnet so he could monitor the engine as it was still running. Sam stayed inside the Impala, savouring the feelings that she was conjuring up in him.

And if she was doing it to _him_ , he suddenly realised, what must they be doing to his brother? If she _felt_ like Home to Sam, then…well, to Dean she _was_ Home. All he had ever really known was this car, apart from the five years of being with their mom and dad, that is…but… Sam's happy thoughts broke off as the truth finally succeeded in breaking through his previously held beliefs and knocked aside even his ridiculous childish jealously that Dean had had that precious few years with their mom that Sam had never got. None of it had been deserved or was even true.

In fact, Sam realised with sudden complete and total clarity and shame, _he_ had known and had memories of Jess for far longer than the two or so years his brother had known their mom for, and even then, Dean had only been _five_ _years old_ when she had died. And he had never said a word to contradict Sam, or had never been allowed to, even against all the teenage angst and vitriol that his little brother had thrown at him….

He stared with blurring eyes through the screen at Dean and realised he was watching him back with a frown on his face. Sam shook himself out of his sudden morose mood: he had so many questions for the other man, and a few apologies to make as well, but they could wait for another time. Or, if he knew Dean as he _thought_ he did, never.

Quickly he climbed out of the car and joined the other two to look under the bonnet and try and pretend that he understood _any_ of what he was looking at. But soon enough he was picking up the not so subtle hints that perhaps he would be of better use elsewhere, _anywhere_ else, and went to do some research inside with the promise of returning with yet more drinks in a while. And with a patronising but loving grin for his brother, possibly some bacon sandwiches as well.

He wasn't going to risk researching that emblem this time though: he had noticed Bobby's face and knew that he wordlessly agreed that Dean should come in sooner rather than later before he drove himself into a state of complete collapse. Although his lifelong habit of disappearing off into the bathroom or bedroom for twenty or so minutes every so often still seemed to reinvigorate him. Until their father's death Sam had always attributed it to Dean's seemingly endless sexual appetite and had made his disgust at his brother's disappearances known at every opportunity. Now, however, like everything else about Dean, he wondered just what _was_ the truth.

No, for the time being he was careful to restrict himself to researching demonic activity, with the private hope that there _was_ none, if only for a few days to give his brother time to properly rest. Then he moved on to researching possible jobs, checked his emails to see if any of his friends from Stanford had been in touch, then he got on with his designated position of caterer for the other two, dropping a few strong hints about leaving the car for now and carrying on the next day.

Which were of course ignored until he had no choice but to _order_ his brother into the house for the night, which wasn't well received by the other at all. And despite his best efforts, Dean had long since been up and outside working when he awoke early the next morning. But he was in a good mood because he felt the Impala was finally ready to go, and Sam, despite his frustration at him, felt relieved as well.

"Okay. Rest, then lunch with Bobby to say goodbye. Then we can give her a proper run."

"I'm ready to go now if you want, Sam."

" _Rest_ , Dean. Or _I'm_ driving her first."

That was the ultimate threat. Dean went off grumpily to have a shower and, Sam hoped, a powernap as well. But he didn't hold out too much hope.

He was surprised therefore when all went quiet for a while upstairs. Sam crept up to peer in to the small bedroom that they now shared, but to his concern there was no immediate sign of his brother. Carefully he stepped fully into the room to check.

He was just turning to yell for Bobby when he realised that Dean was behind him, on the floor behind the door. He was in the same stance that he had gone into when he had first brought his deeds to Sam: kneeling with a straight back and resting on his heels, hands laid against the sides of his lower thighs, but this time his eyes were closed calmly and his breathing was even.

Sam studied him momentarily, this was definitely something new, but then…. It began to go through his head that this _wasn't_ new. This was actually something that Sam _had_ seen before. Many times. But from years before.

He had sudden glimpses of memory, flash-backs of a much younger Dean and of himself seeing it from a much lower view-point, laughing and wanting to kneel with Dean, and of their dad shouting at him that he wasn't to do that _ever_ and to get up _now_! Of watching Dean kneel like this in moments of silence, but from a horizontal angle: Sam supposed he must have been viewing from the bed of whichever motel room and had been presumed to be asleep but wasn't. Of night after night of seeing Dean meditate like this in this, yes, this habitual position of his; of even seeing him knelt beside his father's chair the nights that he had been there with them: sometimes they would be quietly discussing hunts, other times not talking.

Of one night watching as their dad had looked strangely and emotionally at Dean and had gently begun to run his fingers down his back. Of Dean coming out of his trance with a slight start and looking up questioningly at the adult, his green eyes illuminated like two small living flames against the fire light of the cabin they were in that night. Of their dad cupping the back of Dean's head in his large hand and gently but firmly holding him still while he himself leant forward to bring their two mouths together….

Sam came to with a start. That memory had suddenly made him feel ice-cold inside and he felt the need to try and physically shiver the feeling off. It was only then that he realised that the green eyes were open now and staring at him, and although his brother hadn't moved an inch from his position on the floor in any other way, he was watching him curiously.

"You okay, Sammy? You've gone really pale."

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

Dean shrugged. "Bobby's decided to have a bath: I usually go in there out of the way."

"Why? You don't need to. I mean…why in the bathroom?"

"Dad's orders. You started trying to copy me. It's a slave position, he didn't want _you_ doing it anywhere! You might have got in all sorts of trouble. So I was to keep it hidden until you grew out of that stage. By then though you'd started asking all sorts of questions, so I just kept it out of the way."

"It's a what?" Sam was lowering himself down to sit on the floor beside his brother, his long legs only just managing to fit in the small space between the wall and the bed.

"It's just… It's how we're meant to sit. Well, kneel to attention. They beat it in to us to do it. But it finally becomes habit. Then somehow it became comfort." His surprise seemed genuine. "I find it relaxing. Just to kneel quietly and think of nothing: helps me control…."

"Pain?" Sam made sure he sounded calmer than he felt at this admittance.

Dean grunted. "Just helps me cope, Sam. But I'll try and stop if you don't like it."

"No! No. You can do it whenever and wherever you like, Dean. You don't need to hide it from me…in fact, would you mind if I joined you? I used to do yoga."

His brother shrugged, but made no objection. Sam tried to settle himself and his long legs into a cross-legged pose and they were both silent for a while. Sam idly watched as rays from the strong morning sun managed to filter through a gap in the blinds and lit a patch on the wall close to his brother, who had his eyes closed again.

Then his back began to ache and he fidgeted, eventually deciding to copy how Dean had settled. That seemed better. The silence extended.

"Who was 'us'?"

"What?"

"You said 'it was beaten into us'. Who was 'us'?"

Dean shrugged, didn't bother to open his eyes. "There were a few kids there. They'd be gotten ready to be sold then they'd be gone. Most I don't remember."

"But you do some?"

"Vaguely."

"Tell me about them."

Dean sighed but kept his eyes closed even as he frowned in concentration. "Seven. Seven was there with me."

"Who was he?"

"She."

"Was that her slave number? Why does she only have one, when you have two?"

Another shrug. "I'm 451140. She was Four-five one one something or other as well. It would have got confusing. And the slavers who looked after us said she was too pretty to be a four so they nicknamed her Seven."

"So she was close in number to you? Is that because she was sold at roughly the same time? Is that how it works?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it must have been. Same age as me, but I was the oldest. I think."

"And she had no other name but Seven?"

"No. I told you, Sam, I've forgotten if _I_ had one even. I was a kid. We were all just numbers. Well….except…. B….Billy." He said the name as if he was pulling the letters that made it up one at a time out of a long ago locked up and secreted away box in his head.

"Who was Billy?"

He watched as his brother seemed to tense a little. The frown increased as he tried to think back. "He was the baby." There was something in his tone that told Sam that this wasn't anything that Dean wanted to talk about.

"Baby?"

"He was only a baby, Sam." Dean was now hardly whispering, his eyes had opened and Sam could see the intense sadness in them. "A year, eighteen months perhaps, younger than us. Only a baby. And his name was Billy, but I don't know why I… But I do remember it. And him. I remember _him_. And Seven. And he used to call _me_ something as well but I can't _remember_ ….. Only that when _you_ got old enough to try and talk, Sam, you probably won't recall it, but you used to call me 'De': 'wuv oo De'," Sam smiled at him and the memory, "but when you did, it always hurt deep inside somehow because I couldn't help but think of Billy."

He blinked a couple of times as Sam had no choice but to ask: "Do you think he was your brother? Your _real_ brother?" That felt so strange to say, and he felt ashamed of being more than a little jealous.

"I don't know, Sam. I can't remember. And…" He shook himself out of the miserable mood and tried to put on a smile. "I'm never going to know anyway. I haven't dared to let myself think about any of this or…. Not for years."

"But we could find out! There must be records somewhere?"

"In the Department of Voluntary Servitude in Washington that holds the national archive. But you don't just walk in and ask to look at records of slaves!"

"No, but… I bet they're all on computers somewhere."

"No. _No_ , Sam! Don't even _think_ it! They're the most secret department in the government, they're renowned for it! And they've got so many resources: they can call on all the others at will… You do _not_ want to be getting their attention in any way! Or the attention of their fucking Bounty Hunters! They're notorious! You don't outrun them! Ever! Leave it alone. It's past history, I mean it Sam."

"But don't you want to _know_?!"

"No! Not if it means you getting yourself in a lot of trouble with people that make monsters look like tiny little lap dogs! I mean it, Sam. It's past. All done. Leave it alone, Sam. Promise me!" He was angry and worried, glaring at Sam.

It was the other man's turn to grunt: "Okay."

" _Promise_ me, Sam. Don't you mess with these people. Not for me!"

"O- _kay_!" The word was all but spat at him.

Dean watched him in a manner that reminded Sam far too much of their father. He fought down the instinct to argue and instead shifted his aching back and limbs to sit in a loose, legs bent up position leaning back against the wall, trying not to give away the fact that he could no longer feel either of his feet. He mutinously stared at them until Dean had finally turned away with a deep sigh.

Then Sam couldn't help the smirk that curved up the edges of his lips. He had got away without _actually_ promising. Because he was _damned_ if he would. If there was just the _possibility_ of finding out if Dean had a real brother, and then perhaps even _finding_ him…. Sam knew he was good at hacking computers, and if _he_ couldn't get into this one, well then, he had met someone just last week who was _really_ good at them. All it would take was a private word with Ash, and a promise of payment of some sort….

He hadn't meant to upset Dean though. "For what it's worth," he hesitantly told him. "If Billy _is_ your brother then he's missed out on having the best big brother in the entire world. And I'm so grateful he did. Even if that _is_ a terrible thing to say. I _need_ you in my life. I always have, and for _all_ my life. I mean that, Dean."

The other snorted, but didn't respond. Instead he closed his eyes once more and pointedly tried to return to his meditation, but Sam smiled to himself as he noticed him sit up even straighter with pride.

Sam hugged his legs with his arms to try and shake off the pins and needles sensation in his feet. "Who _else_ do you remember?" He heard the frustrated sigh from his brother, but chose to ignore it. "What about the owner? Mr Johnson, was it? What was _he_ like?"

Again he noticed the other man frown. More than a frown, he could see Dean's whole body stiffen with a surge of underlying anger. " _Him_? You don't want to know what he was like, Sam. I guess that's how it makes you, dealing in flesh for a living. We weren't anything to be worth getting emotional about. But…He never should have…" He sighed again as an unwanted and unpleasant memory wandered to the surface of his mind. "Anyway…just as long as he never touched Seven.…"

Sam didn't understand. Decided it was yet another thing he probably didn't want to. "Anyone else?" He was now trying to rub his ankles back into their normal state of existence without Dean noticing.

"One of the men who looked after us. Nate. I think he was called Nate. He was okay: made sure we were fed. Didn't knock us about too much as long as we behaved. Some of the others were too handy with their fists, even with Billy. He always came to me when he was upset. They just left me to get on with it, but that was okay.…"

He paused. Waited. Realised Sam still wanted more details. Sighed _loudly._

"And there was Mr Johnson's wife of course, if you could call her that. She was blonde, and, erm, _big_ in a busty sort of way. She had a number as well though. She was known as sixty-nine."

"Why, was she a slave as well…?" Sam began. Then he stopped, thought about it, and finally looked across at his brother. Only to find that Dean now had his eyes open and was watching him with a grin of sheer devilment on his face. Sam looked down at his feet again and bit at his lower lip trying desperately not to respond, but slowly, and despite himself, he couldn't stop his own wide smile from appearing in response.

He laid his head back against the wall momentarily as he laughed. Then glanced back towards Dean just as the ray of warm sunshine shifted enough to fall across his face, lighting up his eyes to make the soft meadow-green sparkle in such a way as to make the brightest, most brilliant emeralds jealous. It made Sam's breath catch at the sight: even the increasing lines in the corners of Dean's eyes didn't detract from the fact that he really was an incredibly good-looking man, and rather, they served to add more and more to his intrigue. Sam could fully understand how someone could get obsessive about his brother and be willing to pay such a huge sum of money to take him. Because he himself was already as obsessed about him, and would willingly kill anybody who dared to try.

"Sam?"

He shook himself out of his thoughts and began to try and get up, his feet and lower limbs complaining as he put weight on them. "You ready for something to eat and then we'll get going?"

To his amazement, Dean got up from his knees in one easy, smooth motion and came to help him up. "Been ready for ages. Let's just go."

"You fancy checking out some mysterious cow deaths and a decapitated human in Montana?"

Dean shrugged and smiled easily. "As long as it involves taking my Baby and getting the hell out of here, bring it on!"

"Okay then. Bobby! We're going now! Thanks for everything!"

"You two take care of each other, do'ya hear?"

"Yes sir."

The older man watched them as they each carried their bag of belongings to the Impala and murmured fondly to no one in particular: "Idgits!"


	13. Back On The Road

BACK ON THE ROAD

Gordon Walker.

Gordon Walker...

Sam lay quietly, thinking through everything that had happened since they'd met Gordon Walker earlier. The man was so obsessed with killing any and every vampire that he just wouldn't listen to reason. So much hatred; so much of his life and energy spent on revenge; such a waste of an existence that never had succeeded in bringing his sister back but only caused more pain when he eventually had to kill both the monster inside her, _and_ her, himself.

Sam could only be grateful that his brother had actually listened to him and trusted his judgement. At least he hadn't had to take that final and awkward step of ordering him to obey him as, although Dean hadn't been happy about it, he had backed Sam up when he had made the call. Not only that but once the piece of shit known as Gordon Walker had been dealt with, Dean had acknowledged that he had come to agree with Sam's decision. That meant more to Sam than he would ever be able to explain to anyone: his father's praise had meant nothing to him, Dean's meant everything.

Sam was sure that he would never, _never_ , despite all the terrible things that had happened to him in his life, spend the rest of it in such a pointless exercise as to throw everything away for the sake of revenge. Like Gordon Walker had done.

Like his father had done.

No. Sam knew he could never be like them. Not while he had Dean to rely on: he would find that demon and stop it from killing others like it had done everyone else that he had loved, but he would _never_ lose himself in such a destructive desire for revenge.

Never.

Although he _was_ definitelygoIng to find that bastard from that bar despite Dean's entreaties not to and make him wish he'd never _touched_ his brother, but that was just protecting Dean: it was nothing _like_ single minded lust for revenge. Not like Gordon Walker.

Not like his dad.

Nothing at all like either of them.

Sam's thoughts were disturbed as Dean mumbled a little and tried to turn in his sleep in the small bed. Sam relaxed his arms enough to allow him to move: he was already used to this even after only a couple of weeks. Dean would get too hot and try to wriggle away from him, but if Sam just waited a few minutes before attempting to hold him again, Dean would then resettle back into deep sleep. He might always be up earlier than Sam as if embarrassed every morning to stay beside him once awake, but he at least was getting a few hours much needed sleep just about every night since Sam had insisted they start doing this.

So Sam waited and expected Dean to move away. Instead he was slightly surprised when Dean tried instead to lay on his front, his habitual sleeping position ever since Sam could remember, and all but knocked his younger brother from the bed in the process as his face grimaced with pain and his hand moved involuntarily to touch a spot at the side of his lower back even in his sleep. Sam felt irritation rise within him as he noticed the movement: he had _thought_ that Dean had been carrying an injury even _before_ his fight with that bastard Gordon Walker. Why the hell would he never just admit it?

Even before he had realised what he was doing, his hand was replacing Dean's and he was gently massaging the spot where the pain had encroached even through his brother's dreams.

"Sam?"

"Shush."

And Dean did, relaxing at the touch until his breathing was once again rhythmical. Sam felt his own eyes gradually become heavier and as he was still balanced precariously on the edge of the small bed, he gently and carefully moved across until he was right over his brother's body with his own, his hand still soothingly rubbing the ache away and keeping it from disturbing Dean once more. Sam's last coherent thought, as his mouth found a comfortable place to rest against the top of Dean's neck and he also sunk into a deep dreamless sleep, was that he was probably going to be heavy on his brother in the night but at least Dean wouldn't find it so easy to sneak out of the bed in the morning….

And so apart from their new nocturnal arrangement, they tried to get back to what they had been before. To just about the whole world they were brothers. The Winchester Brothers. And only they, Bobby and at least one sadistic bastard knew the truth.

They carried on hunting the yellow-eyed demon.

They carried on looking for the Colt that would kill the yellow-eyed demon.

And Sam carried on trying to find out who that _man_ was. Because he _would_ find him one day: he was one hundred per cent determined of that.

Dean was loud and self-assured when out on a job or in a bar, seemingly exactly the same to anyone whom had known him before. To Sam, back in the motel room or in the car, he was quieter, more self-contained. He would kneel not only to meditate, but to do other things such as work on the laptop. And he was anxious about something: constantly and persistently worried about someone or something that his brother wished he would talk to him about. And not just to do with him being a slave, there was something else praying on his mind: something to do with their dad perhaps. But he would never speak to Sam about it, not any of it, no matter how much the latter tried….

But whatever it was, it only intensified when Sam began to have visions that came true. As his headaches grew, so did Dean's anxiety. As if he knew something Sam didn't. But still he wouldn't talk to him.

But in the meantime they just carried on working. They kept finding trouble and trouble kept finding them.

A simple five minutes for Sam to mourn at his mother's grave while Dean waited respectfully a short distance away was enough for them to become involved with hunting down a murderous zombie.

They exorcised a poltergeist in Kentucky which only ended after Sam had been thrown down a flight of stairs, only narrowly avoiding having any broken bones.

In Philadelphia, Jo led them to a case that at first excited Sam greatly because of his intense fascination with serial killers, but lost its appeal somewhat when Ellen blamed his brother for nearly getting her strong-willed and rebellious daughter killed. He wanted to protect Dean: none of it had been his fault, but the woman's mind was already made up and Dean wouldn't let him interfere.

They literally sniffed out and killed a witch in West Virginia who was testing new spells hidden in the exclusive aromatherapy products used on the unsuspecting clientele of a health spa.

Dean was arrested yet again for his past record as they tried to solve two murders in Maryland, only to find himself nearly another victim of the same murderous, drug-dealing, _human_ police officer who saw him as being the perfect patsy to lay the blame on. No one would have bothered to ask questions if a _slave_ had got shot and killed while trying to escape...

The brothers dug up and burnt the bodies of three sisters in South Carolina who were still carrying on with their petty sibling rivalry even after death. It hadn't been without incident though: Dean had taken the role of playing distraction while Sam salted and burned the last one, and had ended up unconscious for a while after being hurled head first against a granite head stone while his brother was in the act of lighting the remains. Sam had to help him back to the car and spent a restless night in the motel worried that he should have taken him to the nearest hospital instead.

They tracked down a pair of werewolves who were working their way across Tennessee leaving a trail of missing persons and bloody remains behind them. Although they had nearly come to grief when Dean had had, unusually for him, a lapse of concentration that meant he nearly didn't get through the back door of the abandoned and derelict farmhouse in time to help Sam, who had, instead of dealing with two cornered and trapped beings with his brother, suddenly found himself facing both sets of snarling teeth at once, on his _own_.

And boy, was he was _mad_ about it.

"What happened? What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"I don't know, Sam." Dean was uncharacteristically quiet and ...confused. "I don't know what happened. I suddenly was there but I didn't know why. It wasn't until I heard you shout that I came running. But I don't _know_ what happened."

"Well, it better had not fucking happen again, Dean! If I can't trust you to have my back, then what's the fucking _use_ of you?!"

He was sorry immediately he'd shouted those words. He saw his brother wince and turn away, his head down. But he was still too angry for the moment to apologise. Instead he had pushed past Dean and limped back to the Impala, while cursing loudly at his ripped and bloody leg where it had physically gone through a rotten floorboard as he had tried to jump out of the way from the collective onslaught of claws and fangs, and ignoring any suggestion of assistance the other man offered.

He had remained righteously outraged and mute for the journey back to where they were staying, and even into the rest of the night, moodily staring down at Dean as he knelt and silently cleaned the deepest cut and sewed it together with minute and precise stitches before carefully bandaging the rest of the leg up.

"So what _happened_?"

Dean didn't even look up. "I don't know, Sam."

The sheer misery and wretchedness in his voice finally melted the last of Sam's anger away. He sighed and leant forward to hug his brother, surprised and upset now to feel a drop of warm wetness land on his neck. "I didn't mean what I said earlier. I never meant to say that, Dean. I'm sorry."

"You were right to say it, Sammy. I nearly got you killed today."

"You saved me. Two shots: two dead werewolves. Dad would have been proud."

"He'd have busted my ass. Sent me back to the auctions. I would have deserved it."

Sam pulled him closer, into the space between his legs, wrapping his limbs even tighter around his brother to try and console him. "He would have never done that, Dean. Neither would I. I'm sorry for saying something as stupid like that. But...what _happened_?"

Dean paused and tried to pull away, but Sam was having none of it and if anything, held him even closer. He felt Dean's body tense a little before he managed to force himself to try and relax. But his voice was still worried and unsure when he replied.

"I don't know, Sam. I...It was as if I was awake suddenly. Awake and standing up, with a gun in my hand. But I couldn't remember why I was there. Or what I should be doing...I just couldn't think _why_ I was _there_... And then I heard you yell and I came running... "

Sam blinked: that didn't sound good.

"Do you think it's a spell of some sort? Or, did something attack you outside, something that made you forget...?"

"I don't know, Sam."

"We'll go back tomorrow. Check it out in case there was something else there. And I'm sorry, Dean."

And that's what he had every intention of doing.

Until later that same morning when they had both awakened again.

And he had realised that Dean couldn't remember a _thing_ from that day.


	14. Something's Wrong

SOMETHING'S WRONG

 **NOTE TO ONE OF THE 'GUEST'S WHO HAVE COMMENTED: Unfortunately I can't answer directly to you, (if there is a way, then I can't find it!) but, in the proper series itself, it is made clear and mentioned quite a few times just how little self-worth Dean has, and how he always, and unfairly, takes any blame and guilt upon himself. That is because he has been taught to think he is a failure (it's emotional abuse), and the only person who could have done that to him is his dad. Yet, even as Dean himself actually acknowledges this in some of the later episodes, he still loves his dad unconditionally and completely. It may not be understandable to an outsider, but it is what happens. (Think of domestic abuse victims as well and you get the idea.) I've just taken it a bit further in this story: John's desire for revenge has led him to use any weapons in his arsenal, including pimping his son/slave out to acquire what he might need. And Sam and Bobby might not like it, but they are helpless to stop what has already been set in motion. But John did love Dean. So much that he gave his life without hesitation to save him. And he trusted him to finish his 'life's work', no matter what the cost. Unfortunately he never thought about the consequences for Dean's state of mind once he realised that John had died for him – yet more blame and guilt to deal with... Hope this helps makes the story a bit more sense.**

He had almost thought it was just a joke at first.

He had been awakened suddenly by Dean all but tumbling from the bed and snatching for his clothes in a hurry. "Jesus! Look at the time, Sam! It's the last full moon tonight: if we miss it and miss _them_ , then we'll have to wait a month to be sure!"

Sam blinked blearily at him. "What the hell are you talking about? Come back to bed. Shit, my leg's killing me!" as he lay back down and pulled the covers over his head.

"Sam! Come on! We're going to miss catching those werewolves if we don't go now!" And Dean was tugging the thin blankets away and depositing them in a messy pile on the floor. He paused as he saw the bandages around his brother's lower leg. "What's happened? What have you done?"

And at almost exactly the same time Sam was asking: "What are you going on about, Dean? We got them. Yesterday _. You_ got them: you killed them both." He stared at his brother, almost waiting for the punchline to be delivered. But it never came. Instead Dean frowned, wobbled a little where he stood and stared back at him.

"What?"

Sam was getting up out of the bed by now and catching hold of his hand. "Sit down, Dean. You look like you're going to fall. _Please_!" as the older man instinctively began to pull away from the contact. "We got the werewolves yesterday, Dean. Don't you remember?"

Dean slumped down on the now empty mattress with a soft thud. "No. No I don't, Sam. Are you sure?"

"Well, _yeah_! I all but fell through the floor of the old building we cornered them in. You stitched me up last night." He indicated his leg and the recently applied dressings: Dean looked bewildered and stared down at them. "You were acting strange yesterday as well though. I think there may have been something else there besides the wolves. I'm gonna go back and take a look. But I want _you_ to stay here safe. Okay?"

He was reaching out for his own clothes, seriously unnerved by this turn of events. Dean moved to stop him as he began to pull a clean pair of untorn and unbloodied jeans on. "I had to sew you up?"

"Yeah. Yes you did, Dean."

"How bad were you hurt?"

Sam paused from doing his buckle up and smiled at him. Even now, concern about _him_ over-rode everything else in his brother's mind. He sat back down on the bed and reached for Dean's hand with both of his. "I'm fine. Just a couple of cuts: only one that mattered. It's _you_ I'm worried about."

"Let me see."

Sam sighed at him but knew it would be easier and quicker to put Dean's mind at rest about _his_ state of health than it would be to argue. So he simply bent to roll up and pull at the base of the denim until it was up over his knee and sat quietly and waited while Dean knelt on the floor in front of him, drew the long bare foot into his lap and carefully undid the bandages above. He stared at the neat stitches for a long moment.

"This _is_ my work. But why don't I remember _doing_ it, Sammy?"

"I don't know, Dean. We're going to find out. But I want you to stay here while I go."

"No. If it took my memory, then what if it takes yours? No. I'm coming." He was reaching for clean dressings even while he was disagreeing, and expertly wrapping Sam's slim, if somewhat bony limb up once more.

"No you're not. If anything happens and you forget even more and wander off... No. You're to stay here safe."

"Like hell I am."

"I'm telling you you _are_!"

"You try and stop me." He glared up defiantly at the other and pointedly pulled at the leg of Sam's jeans until it was back down where it should be. "You ready?"

"You're staying _here_!"

"Screw you."

He was on his feet and had his boots on waiting at the door before Sam had finished dressing fully. The younger man was silently furious but wasn't sure how to react. Just a short couple of months ago, an exchange like this would simply have meant a completely silent car journey until one brother broke or needed to ask something important. And, he reflected ironically, it would usually have been _him_ because his elder brother could glower for the American Olympic team if pushed enough.

Now though... He knew Dean was only worried about him going alone, but he also needed him to... _obey_ Sam...

And he hated that he was even thinking that.

"You ready?"

"Dean. I would be happier if you would remain here safe. Please."

"Discussion's over."

And Dean was exiting through the door, unlocking the Impala and clambering into the driver's seat. Sam checked he had the motel room key and slammed the door behind him with extreme prejudice. He almost thought about slamming the Impala door as well, but decided that that would probably result in a murder if he did: _his_! So instead he controlled himself enough to carefully close it and turned to Dean, ready to have another go about him staying behind.

Only to pause at the slightly dazed expression on Dean's face as he stared blankly first at the dashboard and then at the car key in his hand.

"Dean?"

"Sam? Wasn't I...? How am I...? What am I doing _here_? And where...? Oh, yeah. We've got to get the werewolves, haven't we? Sorry... I..."

He stretched his arm to use the keys, but Sam quietly put out his hand and stopped him. "I think I better drive, Dean."

"Where we going, Sam?"

"Where every other sane, normal person would have gone to first, Dean. I'm taking you to hospital."

"No Sam. We don't do hospitals: they're more trouble than they're worth. I'm fine."

"Get over your paranoia of hospitals, Dean. And no. No, I don't think you are."


	15. Ugh - Hospitals!

.UGH – HOSPITALS!

 **This chapter got longer than I intended: I've been trying to work out how to split it, but then I thought 'meagh' - I like it as it is! And I've tried to get the medical details realistic. I apologise unreservedly to all doctors and nurses if it's wrong**

Sam sat in the hospital corridor with his head in his hands. He had just finished leaving a message for Bobby via his cellphone and needed a few minutes for himself to catch his breath before he felt able to return to the single room that his brother had been put into.

Now he understood why Dean hated hospitals.

On their journey in, the brothers had quickly sorted through the selection of 'borrowed' details that they had a cache of in the glove box and Sam had picked out one with a short name that he could write discretely on Dean's hand in the hopes that even if he couldn't remember the chosen fake name, he might be able to work it out enough not to give away the fact they had false insurance details. But he had hardly time to fill in the forms at the reception before his brother's obvious dazed condition had caught the attention of the medics and he was being ushered through to the main emergency department to be seen immediately.

Sam caught up with him just in time to see Dean grumbling about being helped into a hospital robe, and being given the routine check with the microchip scanner. Sam had often seen it done, he had had it done to him before: it was part of both hospital and police station routine to check all new arrivals to see if they were slaves or not. The scanner was simply run down the centre of whoever's back as the microchip could be implanted anywhere beneath the spinal cord. Sam had never taken much notice before, but as the female nurse used it on Dean it bleeped loudly, enough to make her start and read text wording on it with surprise and obvious concern.

Which she very quickly hid from Dean as he also turned to look at it in surprise: "It doesn't usually make a noise like that: there's usually only a single beep!"

By this time the resident doctor was also glancing at the message and removing it out of Dean's view. "New machines." He explained simply. "They're so noisy they're driving us nuts!"

But was it Sam's imagination, or did they both suddenly look really tense?

Then he was distracted as Dean complained at being stuck with a sharp needle and having blood taken for numerous tests. Sam couldn't hide his grin as he crossed to stand by his side: his brother could sew inches of his own skin together without flinching but show him a medicinal needle being held in anybody else's hand and he turned into the biggest baby of them all.

"Don't worry, it's a cannula: you only have to suffer it the once as long as you leave it alone." And Dean was sulking as the doctor retrieved the needle leaving the thin tube still inserted into the vein, put the cap securely on and taped the whole thing expertly to his arm covering it with protective bandages. "Just try and relax, Mr Deakin. We'll look after you in here."

Dean grunted. Sam was relieved that he hadn't already forgotten their chosen alias. "I'd rather be anywhere else _but_ here!"

The nurse stroked his arm. "Well you _are_ , but at least you're safe." Dean looked up at her and instinctively turned on the 'Dean Winchester smile': Sam rolled his eyes as the young woman immediately flushed and became a little flustered, knocking the trolley beside her with her leg.

Dean noticed the resident looking at her reaction and automatically gave him the charming smile as well. His eyebrows rose as the good-looking, blue-eyed man in scrubs also turned a shade of crimson and ducked his head. 'Well well,' he thought, 'it might not be so bad here after all'.

He grinned to himself as he looked back down at the bandage around his left arm. It wiped the smile off his face a little: he hated needles, and blood, and injections, and the smell of the place. In fact, he hated hospitals, period. Why had Sam insisted he come here? They should be out chasing the werewolves.

Although, hadn't Sam said in the car that they had already killed the things? How could they have done that? It was impossible: Sam must be mistaken. And why was he limping slightly as he had gotten out of Baby? Had he injured himself somehow: what had he been doing? And now Dean's head was hurting. Really hurting. Why was it hurting? And….

What had he just been thinking about? Oh yes, they were getting ready to get after the werewolves. He just had to load the guns with the silver bullets and they could be on their way. He only had to fetch the ammunition from the bags and….

What the fuck?

He was just in the motel about to check the weapons….Wasn't he….? How did he get _here_? And where _was_ here? And why was he wearing a….Oh God, he was wearing a hospital gown! And there was something sticking in his left arm! Get it out! He _hated_ needles! Get it _out_!

"Dean? Dean! Are you okay? Calm down! I'm here! You're okay!" That was Sam's voice. How did Sam get here? How did _he_ get here? And get this fucking thing out of me!

And even as he tried to pull the cannula out of his vein, Sam was lunging at him desperately, trying to stop him. He had seen Dean's face change to that expression of complete confusion again and knew that this was possibly the worst place for his brother to suddenly find himself in. "Dean! It's alright! You've got to leave that in! They're going to work out what's wrong with you, but you've got to calm down!"

"Sam? How did we get here? We were in the motel…..weren't we? We were just in the motel! What the hell?!"

But now Sam had a tight and painful grip on his right hand and arm and was putting all his weight on them to try and stop Dean from ripping at his left arm, while the doctor and nurse had also grabbed at Dean and were holding him in the chair. And Sam was talking at him, trying to sound calm though his own expression was anything but: "It's okay, Dean. Just let them do some tests on you. I'm here with you, I'm not gonna go anywhere, just take a deep breath. Deep breath, Dean. Come on…."

And he was trying to obey, trying to be good. Even though he could feel his heart pounding, trying its hardest to escape his ribs as frantically as he wanted to escape this hospital. But he took the deep breaths, and held on to Sam, and tried.

"Shit!" Sam still had a strong grip on his brother's arm with one hand, but his other was now around Dean, rubbing his back, trying to get the panic to subside. He looked in desperation at the resident doctor: "What the hell is wrong with him?"

"Has he hit his head at all?" The Attending Physician was coming across, attracted by the scene. And a senior resident. In fact they were all looking. It seemed that everyone in the large multi-sectioned room and beyond was trying to look around the edge of the small cubicle to see what was happening.

"No. Nothing. He's been fine. Until this suddenly started."

"It needn't have been today, or even yesterday. Anything in the last few weeks? Anything that you can think of? Especially at the front of the head? It mightn't have even seemed important at the time."

Sam flinched and went pale. "Oh god, the headstone!"

"Headstone?"

"But that was over a week ago! Longer!" He thought fast. "We travel around from job to job. Take whatever comes along. Anything. This time we had one and there was a shortcut across an old graveyard. Dean tripped, went headlong against a headstone. He said he was okay. He said he was _okay_!"

"Where did he hit?"

"The middle of his forehead. You can still see the slight mark of it."

"Did he go unconscious?"

"I'm not sure. He was already getting up by the time I realised he wasn't with me anymore."

"Have you ordered a CT Head?" This was to the first doctor, who stood almost to attention as the Physician addressed him.

"I will, sir. But it's busy today."

"Take him straight down there yourself. I'll make the call: they'll be ready for you."

"Erm, sir?" And to Sam's surprise, and concern, he was showing his senior the scanner with the message on it. Sam watched as the mouth tightened in anger on the Physician and he didn't miss the quick glance aimed at himself. Not a particularly pleasant glance. Then it was hidden again behind a professional smile.

"Let's get his head checked. Will you be accompanying your….?"

"Brother."

"Okay." And in an undertone to the younger medic, "Make sure Security meets you down there. And sedate our patient if you feel you need to."

"Yes sir."

To Sam, it seemed a long wait for the results of the scan. As directed, the resident doctor had found a wheelchair and pushed Dean down to the Scanning Department himself, where, as arranged, he had been taken straight in while Sam waited outside. Along with two of the hospital's Security team, who had just happened to be already in the waiting area and didn't seem very inclined to be leaving.

Although strangely they did as soon as Dean was being taken up to a small private room. Sam moved to close the door as the doctor left them with a promise to return soon, and noted the two guards now standing in the corridor outside.

"Does that machine give your police record?"

Dean looked at him in confusion and Sam realised that he had forgotten about the scanner and the wording appearing on it. He decided against explaining: it would only worry his brother more, and whatever it was that was happening, when he got anxious it just seemed to make his sudden memory losses happen with more intensity.

Instead he crossed to him. "Come on, up on the bed."

"I don't like this, Sam. We shouldn't have come here. Dad tried never to bring me to hospitals: they always have so many questions as soon as they know what I am."

"We never had trouble before."

"You were never my owner before."

Sam wondered about that comment. But he didn't labour the point. Instead he took a seat in a soft chair beside the bed and they waited for what seemed like hours. And waited.

"Mr Deakin?"

Sam stirred. He must have dozed off in the chair. Dean had also fallen asleep on the bed. Sam quickly got his feet and crossed to the now open door where the Senior Physician who had arranged the scan was standing. "Have you got the results? What's wrong with him?" Absently he noticed that in reality, only an hour or so had gone by.

Then he didn't care about the time as he took note of the two men standing just outside the door. He might not have known _them_ , but he recognised their ilk immediately. After all, he and his brother had imitated them often enough.

"What are you, FBI? What _is_ this? What's going on?"

The two men exchanged glances: both smartly dressed in dark suits, polished but comfortable shoes. Both fit and muscled: ex-military standard fit and muscled. One was older than the other: probably late forties, possibly early fifties, at first glance a friendly countenance with clear blue-greyish eyes and laughter lines; the other younger, possibly about Dean's age, perhaps even early thirties, dark latino features, dark brown, almost black eyes, and his expression when he looked at Sam... it was pure contempt. And Sam could feel himself shrinking at the scornful hatred in it.

"Mr Deakin?" The older was speaking. "That _is_ your name? Mr Deakin?"

"Yes. And who are you?"

Both men got their identification badges out to show him. "We're from the Federal Bureau of Voluntary Servitude. It's been flagged up that a slave with a high 'at risk' status is in the hospital. But he doesn't belong to a Mr _Deakin_. So, sir, I'm going to ask you your name _again_."

"A high at risk status? What does that mean?"

"It means," the younger agent was all but hissing the words as he spoke for the first time, "it _means_ that the poor bastard is at a high risk of being abused by his owner. Our medic wasn't happy at the number of unnatural and possibly intentional scars at his last examination, so put out a general alert to watch for him. And here he is, in a hospital in Knoxville, with a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain."

"He's got what!" The shock of the last few words had all but driven out the rest of the inference from Sam's head. "Bleeding on the brain! Oh God! Tell me you can do something!" This was to the Senior Physician.

"Ford!" The elder Federal Agent was chiding his colleague. The younger man glowered but fell silent, his dark eyes still burning hatred at Sam. "Your _name_ , sir."

"What?" Sam couldn't believe this.

"I'm asking you to confirm your name, sir. And are you the owner or not?"

"He's a _him_ , you piece of shit! I'm _his_ owner! And his brother as well." This last was addressed to the Attending Physician, whose eyes were flashing his disgust at this exchange despite the rest of his face remaining expressionless.

"Sir, I would caution you to remain calm…"

"Sam? What's going on?"

They all turned to stare at Dean, who was standing in the doorway of his room, having hastily dressed back in his jeans and shirt but minus his boots, cannula still in his arm, taking in every detail of the men and of his younger brother's distraught face. The elder FBVS man recovered himself to speak first.

"You must be Fou...Dean. It's good to meet you Dean. If you're up to it, perhaps we can have a little chat." He stepped forward, his hand outstretched as if ready to shake Dean's hand, but it was ignored.

"Sam? You okay?"

"They're saying... they said you've got a fractured skull."

"They shouldn't have said anything at all." The Physician spoke up suddenly. "You're a patient, and despite what authority they think they have, they haven't any in _here_. But we shouldn't be discussing this here." He motioned for them all to step into the private room. "It's not as bad as they made it sound. But if we _could_ establish who your owner is, then I will have to discuss your treatment with him or her…" He smiled reassuringly at Dean, who fixed him with a glare but didn't move a muscle in any direction.

"So why are _you_ here?" This was all but barked at the two Federal Agents.

"You're on a watch for 'at risk' slaves. The scanner set it off and we came immediately."

"I've been in a police station recently. You didn't come _then_!"

"We're not interested in your misdemeanours, only your well-being: the Bureau takes that _very_ seriously. We've found that slaves with criminal records have usually been forced into it by their masters anyway, and besides..."

"Besides what?"

"Besides, it gives the morons in FBI something to do out of _our_ way!"

Dean stared at the older man, who met his glare calmly. He felt his lips twitch despite himself and noticed the other's grey eyes laugh in response. Dean nodded and relaxed a little. "I'm good at getting hurt. But Sammy's never touched me. He never has, he never will. You're barking up the wrong tree with him. And I sure ain't going anywhere with you!"

"Explain this injury then." The younger FBVS agent was stepping forward aggressively.

Sam tensed but forced himself to remain calm after a glance from Dean. 'Please let him say something close to what I made up', he thought. "How did you bang your head, Dean?"

"It must have been in the graveyard." Dean didn't even blink, he was so determined to defend his brother. "It was a shortcut. I was trying to keep up with Sam. Look at him: his strides are three of mine at least. I tripped on something and hit a headstone. Simple as."

"Did you lose consciousness?" The Physicican asked at exactly the same time as the elder FBVS agent spoke: "So Mr Deakin was definitely in front of you? In your view at all times?"

Dean glared at him, his previous animosity fully restored. "Sam didn't push me, if _that's_ what you're suggesting! He's never touched me. _Never_! And I don't know if I lost consciousness: I just know it fucking hurt and still does."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me!" Sam was incredulous. And angry. And guilty: he should have known. Why would Dean never just _tell_ him when there's something wrong.

"It didn't seem important, Sam. It's not terrible, just still aches."

"And on that note, gentlemen." The Physician was pulling himself up to his full height and showing why he was in a position of authority. "You have heard my patient. It was an accident. I think you're done here."

"Not quite. We haven't established where your owner is, have we, Dean?"

"To be fair," the medic agreed. "I will need to know that as well before we can proceed with any treatment. _Is_ it this young man here?"

Sam desperately caught Dean's eye. The other gave him a little nod: this was _not_ the time to get caught in any lies. He sighed and went for full honesty. "My name is Sam Winchester. Dean is my slave, although I didn't even know that he was one until our father died three months or so ago and left him to me. And as for the scars? We've both had a tough upbringing: if you want to examine me, you'll see I'm covered in them as well." He was pulling up his own shirt as he was speaking and showing them his own marked torso. "That's unfortunately how it went. But I'd never hurt him, and he knows that. No matter what you're thinking. He was brought up as my brother, and to me, that's what he'll always be."

"You think we're going to believe that…?" The younger agent, Ford, wasn't convinced and was still spitting with contempt, but the other caught at his arm and pulled him away. "Hamill….!"

"Enough!" Their partnership obviously wasn't built on mutual respect, but the elder agent continued speaking calmly enough. "As long as you don't think you need us, Dean. But here's my card in case you ever do." He handed the business card over, while his partner stepped up to the Physician, staring him down.

"He's to have a full medical and any new injury recorded with photographic evidence. I'll be looking for the report first thing in the morning. From _you_. Personally."

"Of course. I'm sure you can find your own way out."

The brother's glanced at each other at the pleasant sounding tone of the medic's voice: neither were fooled, and Sam couldn't help but be grateful the Senior Physician was on _their_ side.

That all changed slightly the moment the three of them entered the single room that Dean had been put into. The moment the door had closed behind them, he was holding his hand to the front of his head in agony: "Shit. Shit! What _is_ this?"

The Physician caught Dean as his legs buckled beneath him and pushed him towards the chair, it being an easier height to get him safely onto. "Get the nurses!"

Sam obeyed immediately and the small room suddenly seemed full of people in scrubs and bleeping machinery. The younger Winchester could only wait as his brother was manually lifted onto the bed, redressed in the hospital gown, and connected up to the main monitor that hung above the bed.

"Blood pressure's coming back down." "Sats seem good." "Heart rate's steadying, a much better pace." "Here he comes." "What can you remember, Dean? Your brother's there, the other side of the bed, don't worry. Just tell us what you can remember."

"I was in the motel… How am I here?"

"And what day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Okay. You just rest there. I'm going to talk with your brother for a moment."

One by one the rest of the medical staff went until only the Attending Physician, one nurse and the original resident doctor were left in the room with Sam and Dean. "I'm writing a prescription for him to be kept sedated for a while and he'll be put on something to lower his blood pressure as well. It's important we keep it under control from now on."

"So," Sam could hardly speak. "What's happening? Does he have a fractured skull?"

The Physician gave a tight smile. "No, Mr Winchester, he doesn't. There's a slight crack in it, at the front where you thought, but it's not that that's the problem. That will heal on its own with him hardly being aware of it, an ache that will gradually go: the bone will repair itself in time just like any other bone in the body." He paused. "Just like it has done before….

What _is_ the problem, and what is causing his symptoms, is that he has a small bleed in his brain beneath that just won't quite stop. It's trying to, but every time he gets agitated or anxious, up goes his blood pressure and, to put it in the simplest terms, the clot that has naturally formed to stop the bleeding is ripped away under the extra force of blood flow, and the bleeding starts up again.

We've just had a prime example of that, thanks to your two new friends in suits. How he even managed to walk back into this room before collapsing is amazing. But it's meant even more blood where there shouldn't be in his brain, causing pressure to build on his frontal cortex, and that controls the short term memory, hence the sudden and extremely abrupt episodes of memory loss."

"But he can't seem to get past Tuesday?"

"That could well be the last clear memory he had before the pressure built up too much. Did anything happen that day to make him more anxious or agitated than previously? Remember, we're talking tiny amounts of blood in his brain, but enough where it shouldn't be can cause a massive problem."

"So what can you do?"

"What I'd _like_ to do, is do an ICP. It involves a minor procedure that will connect your brother directly up to a monitor that will precisely measure any change happening inside his head. Forty-eight hours with careful medication to keep his blood pressure low, and a lot of rest, will let us know whether it can heal naturally on its own. Which is much the preferable outcome. The alternative is that it's not going to be able to heal itself, and he'll need to have an operation to, er, go in manually as it were."

Sam stared at him. "You mean…. operate on his brain?"

"Yes. Obviously that comes with risks, so I'd rather try the ICP and make sure he definitely needs it first. But…."

"But?"

The Physician sighed. "I really do hate this part. But. You signed paperwork as Mr Deakin and supplied insurance documents in that name. Would I be correct in assuming that they were false?"

"Oh God." Sam felt that the small room was decreasing in size and height round him. "Yes. Yes, they are. I'm sorry. But it's _my_ fabrication. Nothing to do with Dean. Please just help him."

"I'd like to, but without valid insurance, or payment…. I'll destroy the false documentation: nothing has been claimed yet. But I will need _real_ details, Mr Winchester. And I'm afraid there's already quite a bill."

Sam nodded: "I'll call my uncle. Perhaps he can help."

So Sam sat in the corridor and left a message for Bobby, hoping that the older man could come to their rescue yet again. Really, how much did they owe their surrogate uncle? Neither of them could ever thank him enough before this, and now Sam really hoped that he could come through for them yet again. Because Sam had no idea how to pay the medical bill otherwise.

And he'd decided that _he_ now hatedhospitals.

He ran his hands through his hair and put his head in his hands, then he went for a short walk to get some much-needed fresh air. A trip to the bathroom and cold water splashed on his face and neck completed the only Sam-time he dare take before he inhaled a deep breath and headed back to the private room where he had left his brother asleep.

To his surprise the Attending Physician was in there as well, sitting talking to Dean. He greeted Sam with a nod: "I'm just explaining to Dean what we're going to do. And how if he can manage to remain calm and keep his blood pressure down, then it should help to stop the memory loss and consequential disorientation that he's been experiencing."

"You're going to do this…whatever it is?" Sam was surprised and relieved.

"ICP? Yes. Whoever you contacted has already paid all the fees so far, and has left instructions that anything else required be paid as well. Even if it means a full operation, Dean's covered. I'm making preparations for this to be done as soon as possible."

"Oh ... thank you Bobby!" He smiled at Dean and wondered why the other didn't look quite so happy about it…. But then, he was facing a possible brain operation, so Sam could understand that he wasn't.

The next couple of days seemed to stretch for months. Sam hadn't quite realised that the 'small procedure' entailed of attaching the tiny monitor directly to the brain anyway, and he was horrified when his brother had been returned to the room looking pale and sick, part of his head shaved and the newly made tiny hole in his skull covered with a bandage. Although Dean had quickly recovered once he had woken up, and as long as he didn't go out of the range of the recording device that had also been brought back to the room, he could get up and move around a little, with Sam fussing over him at every step.

And they had another problem. Because it seemed that sleep was somehow another trigger for his memory to be affected as his brain tried desperately to heal itself, and as he was kept lightly sedated, every time he did wake up he had forgotten once more where he was and most, if not all, of the previous few hours' events.

 _And_ that he was supposed to be _resting_.

And as usual he had quickly become the centre of attention whether he wanted to be or not. Many female nurses came to 'take his blood pressure', and flirt shamelessly with the extremely good-looking and charming patient. Most ignored Sam: hospital gossip had spread quickly that he owned Dean and he was left in no doubt of their opinions, even without any of them saying a single word. He couldn't blame them: just three months ago he would have had exactly the same reaction.

And the original resident doctor who had first seen Dean when they had arrived, also came to join the brothers once he had finished his shift, offering to sit and keep Dean company for the evening if Sam would like to have a break.

"And, erm, Mr Winchester?" Sam turned as he was heading off to the restaurant to get a good meal and to let Bobby know how his brother was doing. "I was just wondering if...Dean was allowed to see people. You know...once he's not a patient anymore? Do you let him go on dates? I mean, if I asked him and he wanted to?"

Sam stared at the doctor. Was he serious? Was he really asking if he could see Dean? Asking _Sam_ if he could see Dean? "No." He heard himself say. "No. I'm sorry. That's not going to happen."

And the young - hell, no he was _older_ than Sam, he was probably the same age as his brother - the young man was nodding sadly and turning away to sit and talk to Dean anyway for the little time that he could. And Sam was walking away wondering why he had reacted like that, but no way was he turning back to change his decision...

But both the brothers were relieved when it seemed that Dean wouldn't need a full operation. He was just under orders to rest for another couple of weeks and the Physician emphasised _complete_ rest: no stress, no over-exertion, no alcohol. _At_ _all_. The monitor was removed and he was given good to go the next day.

Sam wandered outside to call Bobby and give him the good news, only to feel tears in his eyes at the sight of the old man walking across the car park to meet him. Before Bobby could speak a word, Sam's arms were around him in a tight hug and he could feel the stress that the boy had been under in every tightly-wound muscle in his long body. He hugged him back momentarily.

"Okay, ya idgit, break it up. How is he?"

"Oh Bobby." Sam sighed loudly. "It's getting better. It's _much_ better already with the medications. But his memory is still going, though at least he could remember some of this morning earlier. But he forgets that he's not supposed to be _doing_ anything! Even in the hospital with all the distractions, it's been like trying to watch a two year old. I'm dreading getting him back to your place. We're going to need eyes in the back of our heads!"

Bobby grunted: "Just think what it was like for him watching _you_ as a two year old. And him only seven himself and worried about where the hell your dad had gone off to for this week…"

Sam stared at him and looked abashed. "Sorry Bobby. You're right. It's my turn."

"No, _I'm_ sorry Sam. That wasn't fair to direct it at you. I guess I'm still mad at your dad for a lot of things. I always will be for what you two boys have gone through because of him."

The young man nodded. "You and me both, Bobby."

They turned to walk into the hospital together. "Thanks for sorting out the fees, Bobby. It must have run into thousands. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"That's what I was about to ask, Sam. I've raised what I could. But I don't know how we're going to pay the rest."

They stared at each other as each of their words sunk in. "It's already all been paid, Bobby! And more promised for the operation if he'd needed it. I thought it was you!"

"Wasn't me, Sam. I've been worried sick about how in hell we're going to manage to raise the money for the medical fees!"

"But then, who _paid_ them for Dean? And why _would_ someone..?"

And then they stopped, and stared at each other in horror.

Because they had both suddenly realised who.


	16. One Conversation Leads To Another

**Note - I nearly named this chapter 'A Lot of Conversation': I hope there's not too much!**

ONE CONVERSATION LEADS TO ANOTHER

Dean was having _that_ dream again.

He hadn't had it for a long while, but that night it seemed as if his battered and muddled brain wanted him to suffer the memories once more. And he hated it. It wasn't a nightmare, nothing as terrifying as a nightmare. But he hated that dream. And he couldn't stop it: once the faces began to flow through his mind, he was helpless to stop the parade.

Always.

 _Always._

 _She_ was first.

He could never get her into focus. He tried so hard, every time, to get her into focus so he could see her properly. But he never could. He could never quite see the features: blue eyes or brown, or green like his, full lips or narrow, blonde hair or light brown. And he always reached for her, he could see his own arms; small, podgy arms; desperate for her to reach back for him. Desperate for her to smile and take him with her. And then she was standing up and moving away. Leaving him again.

Then the other faces would start. John Winchester's, sometimes smiling, usually moody and shouting, then changing, his eyes looking at Dean strangely, his lips coming closer. Too close. And Drayton, much younger than in the bar. Smiling in a way Dean didn't like, his mouth and his hands where they shouldn't be and Dean not being able to do anything to stop it.

Then a whole stream of other faces, mostly men's faces. Too many for Dean to count. So many that they became blurred together, merging and melting into a procession of mouths and hands and penises and every single other part of the human body that he could be forced to lick or suck, and the feeling that _everything_ was out of Dean's control. Occasionally he would be able to recognise one or two: Drayton or his siblings again, Mr Johnson, John Winchester, the prince. But mostly it was just a jumble of out of his control emotions, causing shame and self-loathing, and a mixture of extreme agony and orgasmic pleasure that combined so closely he couldn't tell which was which.

And now added into the dream there was Sam. Sam looking at him in the way their father had done. Sam's hands on him, his mouth on him. He could see his own naked body, his own arms reaching out in reaction.

And that terrified him most of all.

Because he wasn't sure whether he was about to desperately try to push Sam away out of the same dread as he had felt with all the others…. or was about to pull him closer.

He awoke with a start, panting as if he had been running for his life throughout the night. He could still feel the breath of all those men on his body, on his face. He could still feel all their hands on his skin. His heart pounded once more from his own revulsion at himself.

And then he suddenly realised that there _was_ warm breath against his face, and there _was_ a large warm hand idly stroking and teasing the naked skin above the edge of his sweatpants. And Sam was waking fully next to him with a start and pulling him even closer into his arms with alarm. "Dean? What is it?"

Dean could hardly speak: he couldn't even catch his breath. The images of the men, _all_ the men, played across even his waking vision now. He felt ill at the thought of all of it: everything that he had done, everything that they had done to _him_. Panic set into his chest and blackness started to cloud around the edges of his sanity.

But then Sam was there. "Dean? Dean! Calm down. You've got to calm down. Christ, your heart's racing!" And he was aware of his brother's hand now resting over his ribs, feeling the bones shake enough to almost crack at the force of the muscle inside trying to break through them. "Dean! Listen to me! It was a dream. Just a dream. Look at me, Dean. Just look at me, baby. It was a dream. Deep breaths: in, out. And again. Come on, Dean. You've got to slow your heart rate down."

And Sam was climbing on and over him, knocking his legs carelessly out of the way until he was covering Dean's body with his own, holding Dean's chin and jaw firmly with his left hand to make sure his brother was focused on him and him only, while his right hand clamped down on Dean's chest as if it would reach inside him and stroke away the stress on his heart if only it could. "You're safe, Dean. Nothing's going to get to you without going through me first. But deep breaths now. Nice and calm. It was only a dream. It was only a dream."

Sam watched as his brother finally began to calm down and get control of his breathing again. It was rare for Dean to have a panic attack like this, although Sam could clearly remember one morning from years before and their dad talking his then teenage brother out of a similar one, telling him that it was okay and he'd never have to do anything like that ever again. 'This is because of those agents' he thought. Dean had been doing so well keeping his blood pressure down for over a week at Bobby's and then _they_ had come along…. Please don't let this have done anything to affect his brain again…

It was with relief that he felt the rhythmic vibrations through his long fingers slow to a steadier rate and his brother's chest no longer rise and fall with panic for a breath. "You okay?"

Dean looked dazed but nodded.

"What day is it today?"

"What?"

"The day. What day is it today? Come on Dean. Tell me."

Dean stared up at him and nearly told him what a fucking stupid question that was. But something about Sam's anxious expression caused him to stop and try to think. And to his surprise he really _did_ have to think about it. "Last night," he said eventually. "Last night when we came to bed, you told me it was Thursday. I wondered why you'd bother to say that. So today must be Friday."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "That was actually the night before, Dean. It's Saturday today. But at least you didn't say Tuesday! I got really bored of Tuesdays _so_ quickly!"

"What?"

"You've been ill, Dean. Your memory has been affected. Is still affected. But you're getting better. Just as long as you getting anxious over this bad dream hasn't caused any damage." 'If it has,' he added silently to himself, 'you're going straight back to the hospital, no delaying it this time.'

"Sam?"

"Yes, big brother?"

"You going to get off me?"

Sam started as he realised. He was lying full length on top of Dean, taking some of his weight on his own elbows, one hand still holding Dean's face so he could look straight down into, and lock with, his eyes; the other hand wedged between their bare chests, the steady thudding of Dean's heart now echoing through his fingers and rippling down into the rest of his body. His first thought was a slight embarrassment: his second was that he didn't really want to move. The third was the realisation that his brother, given the way he was lying with his rest of his weight pressed between Dean's legs, was _fully_ aware of the response of his body to their position and could feel every long inch of him.

Sam's face flared red as he carefully slid off Dean and moved to lie beside him on the bed. But he couldn't quite bring himself to let go of his brother so instead he pulled him across and into his arms, ignoring the grumbles as Dean tried to stop him. "Just come here and shut up." Dean gave in with a bad grace and let himself be held.

They lay in silence in the increasing light of dawn for a while. Sam hoped that Dean might have been able to go back to sleep but slowly became aware of the other's long eye lashes faintly brushing against his skin every time he blinked. "Do you want to talk about the dream?"

He felt Dean shake his head rather than saw it. "It was just a dream."

"Yes but…"

"Just a dream, Sammy."

The silence stretched on.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"That, erm, that…. Your hard-on."

"Oh God, Dean. I'm sorry about that."

"Was it because you were thinking about Jess…?"

"Of course it was, I'd been dreaming about her."

"That's okay then."

Sam knew he shouldn't feel upset at the relief in Dean's voice. But he did. "What, did you think it was for _you_ ….?"

"I was worried."

"Seriously? You're my brother for fucks sake, Dean!"

"No I'm not."

Sam wasn't quite sure what emotion he felt at that: sadness and a slight shocked surprise definitely. But also was there….hope? "What?"

"Face it Sam, I'm not your brother. Not by blood, not by any legalities. No connection at all really. Although we're closer than probably most brothers will ever be. I…. was just worried that you might be realising that."

"I don't swing that way, Dean!"

"Who are you trying to convince, Sam? You used to call my name out in your sleep and wake us both with your wet dreams. Why do you think dad finally told me not to let you into my bed, and suggested I just go out of the way every night? 'Go out and stay out if you can, boy.' In case you found out what I was and realised that you had a right to….to…. Well. He was worried about what you'd do."

"Dad knew?"

"Of course he knew."

"Oh Christ."

"But it's okay, Sam. If you were dreaming about Jess…..You were, weren't you?"

No response.

"Sam?" Dean wriggled out from beneath Sam's armpit and raised his body up enough to look at him. Sam stared steadily at the ceiling, his face a definite shade of scarlet. "Sam? I have to say this. Especially if my memory's as bad as you're saying it is."

"What?"

Dean hesitated momentarily, then ploughed on before he could talk himself out of speaking. "I know you, Sam. No one will ever know you better. And I know you loved Jess. You met her at what… you were eighteen, nineteen? And I know you: you'd have been faithful to her until the day you died. That's _you_. That's the happy ending you've always dreamed of. And I'm proud of you for holding onto that. But…."

"But?" Sam still wouldn't turn his head but he was listening intently.

Dean closed his eyes, forced himself to carry on. "If you _were_ thinking of me….I'm not saying you are. But… Anyway. Just in case you ever do. You have to understand that I can never be faithful to you. I wish I could. But… what I am… I have to pay any debts owed. Or give whatever I have to, if it's needed. And I would do, Sam. Without hesitation: I'd do whatever to anybody for _you_. And I need you to know that. I would never be your 'happy-ever-after'. I couldn't ever be. I… I just need you to know that. Even if I'm completely wrong about the subject."

Dean slid off the bed, grabbed his yesterday's clothes and headed to the door to go and get a shower.

"Dean?"

He paused but didn't turn. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"The way your memory is at the moment…. You're probably not even going to remember this conversation."

"To be honest, Sam: the way I can't even think what day it is...I'm kinda banking on _not_ being able to remember this _particular_ conversation!" Dean hesitated momentarily then as he went out through the door, added: "But _you_ will!"

Sam's thoughts returned yet again to those words later that night as he watched his brother sleep. He was relieved that the nightmare hadn't seemed to cause any relapse at all: Dean's memory was steadily improving as his body began to deal with any residue of blood left in his brain, and as it decreased, so did the pressure it had caused, and consequently so did his symptoms. He was down to losing hours at a time rather than days when he woke; sometimes a few, other times only a couple; although whether he would ever regain the majority of events during these last two weeks of his life was anyone's, including the Attending Physician's, guess.

Although Sam knew Dean well enough to wonder how much he might _really_ be remembering during the last few days. Because his brother was a _very_ good liar. But he hoped with all his heart that the previous day's visit from the FBVS _would_ be one of the things forgotten as it had upset Dean so much.

And it had caused Sam to question just about everything he had ever done.

It was ironic in a way: all his student life he had raged about 'the system and how it should be looking after the rights of slaves and the injustices against them', and now, despite the proof that the system actually _did_ , he wished with all his heart that it was _not_ focused on Dean. Sam was seriously unnerved to think just how much attention they were suddenly seeming to be getting paid by _everyone_.

For the first time he wondered if he should have listened to his brother and _not_ asked Ash to try and hack into the National Archive…. But he still wanted to try and find out the truth about Billy. But perhaps it _would_ be sensible to back off for a while…

He had just returned from picking up supplies from the store when they had arrived: it was only fair that he buy the food while they were staying with Bobby rather than them eating the old man out of house and home. Bobby had come out to help him unpack the Impala to Sam's immediate concern: "Where's Dean?"

"He's fine. He's in the kitchen. We had a rummage through the cupboards and found some out of date cans of fruit filling. We've opened a couple: they seemed fine so he thought he might as well make some pies. At least that will keep him out of mischief for a while."

"Dean? Baking?"

"He's never baked for you, Sam? My old neighbour taught him years ago when John used to dump….erm, leave him with me occasionally. She used to tell me to encourage him: said he was a natural pastry chef. Nah, he knows what he's doing alright. If I take these bags, you okay with those?"

"Sure, Bobby."

Then they had both paused as the huge, brand-new, gleaming black and chrome four-by-four had pulled into Bobby's yard and driven straight up to park behind the Impala.

"Shit." Sam felt he could barely breathe as the two agents climbed out, dressed in informal civilian clothes and showed their badges. Bobby went pale as he recognised the shields: the reputation of _this_ Bureau made the FBI seem like boy scouts.

"We just came to see Dean." Hamill was speaking for them both. "We had a few questions that we thought he might be able to answer. May we see him?"

Bobby and Sam glanced at each other, but knew they daren't refuse. "Carry a bag each then!" Sam winced at Bobby's blatant brashness, but the two agents good-naturedly took one each before following them in.

"Dean? We have visitors!"

He was relieved, as well as amazed and slightly amused, at the sight of his brother calmly rolling out homemade pastry on the flour-dusted table. He had actually shed his usual couple of overshirts and was just in his plain black t-shirt and jeans, using his bare, freshly scrubbed scrupulously-clean hands and arms to work the pastry to the perfect thinness: one greased pie dish waiting beside him ready to be filled, and from the aroma that was beginning to fill the kitchen, one already in the oven. Dean turned as they all entered, his eyebrows rose at the sight of the two agents but he didn't say a word.

"Hello again, Dean. You probably don't remember us. We met a couple of weeks ago." They showed their badges once more. He remained silent. "We'd just like to have a talk with you, if Sam says that's alright?"

The brothers exchanged looks, and Sam nodded, although he was not happy. As Bobby took the supplies from the agents and began to noisily unpack the bags, Ford crossed to sit at the table beside Dean while his partner took the chance to look around the kitchen. His attention was immediately caught by the notes, of which there were many. All written on paper over the duration of the last few days and stuck to the most obvious positions in the room.

Thus the sink had a note reading: 'DEAN. BOBBY WILL REPAIR THE WASTE DISPOSAL. YOU ARE NOT TO TOUCH IT!'

The back door had more than one stuck to it: 'DEAN. DO NOT THINK ABOUT MOVING ANYTHING AROUND OUT IN THE YARD. OR THINK ABOUT FINDING ANY PARTS FOR THE IMPALA IN THE YARD. IN OTHER WORDS: STAY OUT OF THE YARD!'

Or, written on another one: 'DEAN. THE IMPALA IS OFF LIMITS FOR THE TIME BEING. DO NOT EVEN THINK OF TAKING HER FOR A DRIVE. AND SHE DOES NOT NEED ANY WORK DOING ON HER'. Underneath had been added in a different pen: 'NOR DOES SHE NEED A WASH!'

Hamill chuckled aloud as he read a few: "I can imagine it's been pretty hard work looking after a Hunter who keeps forgetting he's sick!"

The tension in Sam and Bobby rose: what had he just said?

"Yeah," Hamill continued. "We've been finding out everything there is about _all_ of you. Weird things happen, usually involving violent deaths or disappearances, then the Winchester brothers, or their 'uncle', roll into town and all the nastiness stops. Didn't take too long to make the connection. And people are always too happy to talk to us. You've never tried to impersonate _us_ , have you, Sam? Mr Singer?"

Bobby swallowed hard: at least he could answer truthfully. "No sir. And I've never been one for shooting at unarmed animals."

"Mr Singer...you _know_ what I mean when I talk about Hunters." The agent shook his head at him. "We've seen a few things. Seen the remains of slaves used as bait for a few as well. Don't put us in the same category of stupid as the FBI."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"That's good. That's good! It explains a lot of Dean's injuries as well...How's he doing?"

Why is this agent being so nice? Sam had wondered. And why is his partner not saying anything? It's almost as if this one's...distracting us.

He immediately turned where he stood. And he was right. Even while Dean' hands were completing the crust of the next pie, his attention was on photographs of individuals and other paperwork that the other FBVS agent had quietly produced from the folder he had brought in and was showing him. Ford was watching him carefully as he looked, and Sam knew he was noticing what he himself instantly did: that his elder brother's expression had turned completely and purposely blank and his whole body had stiffened with tension.

Then his attention was caught by the agent's cell phone that had casually been discarded on the table for a moment, and his long legs had taken him across the small kitchen to snatch it away before Ford could react. There on the screen was the symbol that he had been searching for: the one from the cufflinks and the ring of that man.

It was two Greek letters superimposed, he realised. The uppermost one was an upper case 'A', and designed to lie just beneath it was a stylised lower case epsilon, but one that had a tail curving back against the direction that the normal letter would normally be finished in. The two figures were the same size as each other, and combined to form a very unique and stylish emblem.

Beneath it was a small rectangle that contained of lots of parallel lines, exactly the same length but irregular widths that reminded Sam strongly of a bar code on a grocery product. He could just make out small numbers beneath it, and both images were set on a strange beige or flesh-coloured background, making them not as sharp as they would probably be on paper but still clear enough if somewhat softer around the edges.

"What's this? What _is_ this symbol?"

The younger agent sat back in the hard kitchen chair and studied him intently. Dean's head drooped a little: he did not want to look at Sam at that moment. His younger brother could almost hear him _willing_ him to leave the subject, to let it alone. But there was no way Sam was going to do that.

" _Answer_ me! What is this?"

Ford considered his response. He glanced just once at Dean, and it flashed across Sam's mind momentarily that the agent was trying to _protect_ his brother. Then he carefully replied. " _That_. Is the emblem of one of the most secretive, and most ...let's call it _self-serving,_ group of people in extremely high positions of power that you could imagine."

"Who are they?"

"That's what _we_ would like to know." Hamill responded from behind him. "And most of the other Bureau's as well. You can imagine our surprise when we saw _that_."

By this time Bobby was also studying the image on the small screen with a frown. "What's the other thing? The thing like a bar code?"

The two agents stared at him in silence. Then they stared at Sam as if trying to decide whether he knew what it was or not. Finally Ford answered. "That's not important. It's the _insignia_ that caught our attention. For the group to come out in to the open and use their emblem. _And_ their name on a document. That's _rare_."

"What document? And what _is_ this group? Who are they?" Sam stared at the both of them in frustration. "Dean!" His brother physically jumped as his name was barked sharply. "If _they_ won't tell me, then _you_ will! What _is_ going on?"

"That's enough, Mr Winchester." Hamill was now coming across to join the others at the table: Sam noticed how he had deliberately moved to put his own body between him and his brother. The agent reached to take the folder from his partner and withdrew a photostat copy of a form. "Is this your signature, sir?"

Sam took the form and studied it with bewilderment. At first glance it looked to be a legal document, but he didn't recognise it, or remember signing it. "Yes. It looks like it. But what _is_ this?"

"Notification of a Possessory Lien in regard to the use of the property identified as Four-five-one-one-four-zero as security against the concluded monetary payment, detailed below, loaned to Samuel Winchester, and any future loans to Samuel Winchester, monetary or otherwise that might become necessary, in condition subsequent of Samuel Winchester assuming possession of the aforementioned property upon the demise of his father John Winchester..." Bobby read it out from over his shoulder. "Wait! What _is_ this? And who or what is the Alpha Exousia?"

"A...E! That's the emblem! But what...?"

"That _is_ your signature, sir?"

"Yes! But what...?"

"Thankyou, sir. That's all we wanted to confirm." But neither agent looked happy as they retrieved the copy from him and slipped it back into the folder.

"But I don't understand...What payment loaned? I've never even _had_ a loan! And _who_ are the Alpha Exousia? I've never heard of them. And I don't remember signing that!"

Ford sat up straight and met Sam's angry eyes without hesitation. "As I said, Mr Winchester, they are one of the most secretive organisations that we have ever met. Where they started, how they started, _who_ they are is unknown. But you name it: they probably have at least one member that is involved in it somewhere. The criteria for selection to join seems to be that you have to be personally very rich; very high in status; extremely well connected; and _very_ ambitious _,_ for both yourself as an individual and for the AE. The Alpha Exousia work together for the good of _only_ themselves: that's the idea behind its existence. The name translates roughly as the 'Right to Absolute Power', which pretty much sums them up. And that's about all we _do_ know.

Because we're not sure who any of them are. Neither do the FBI. We have _ideas_ , and we were hoping Dean might be able to help us with that today, but..." This was with a glance at the slave, who wouldn't look up to meet any of their eyes. "We've commandeered all of the other Bureaus' files about them. They don't know much about them either. But the FBI are hopeful of something happening soon as their sources indicate a big shake up going on inside the organisation at the moment...

There seems to be a massive power struggle between two really major players which is turning increasingly bitter and vicious. And bloody. It's making the other members nervous: apparently these are both really powerful individuals and it's forcing the others to take sides. By all accounts, the two men involved really hate and detest each other with a vengeance and have even recently come to blows over a common love interest!

And as to whether you _remember_ signing that, sir, the fact remains that you _did_."

But Sam had hardly heard any of that as he had been looking over at Dean. And although his brother's head was still lowered, he could see the glint of the tear that was just about to drip from his jaw. He had moved around Hamill and had his hands on Dean's shoulders before the agent could step to block him again.

"Dean?" He made sure to keep his voice gentle this time. "You _knew_ about this, didn't you?"

There was no response, if anything, Dean's head tipped forward even lower. Sam caught his jaw, wiped the next couple of tears away from his cheek with his thumb and made him look back up, straight into his own concerned face. Dean's eyes were glistening with tears that made them shine and sparkle in the afternoon light. "Tell me."

"I didn't want you to know, Sammy."

"There's been a lot of things lately that you didn't want me to know. But they've all been coming out the woodwork anyway since dad died. So tell me. Dean?" As his brother's eyes looked away. "Tell me. What is this paperwork?"

His brother sighed a deep sigh that was ripped directly from the centre of his heart. "It was your scholarship."

Sam frowned. "My scholarship? What, to Stanford, do you mean? No, I applied for and got one when I sat the SAT tests."

He felt Dean's shoulders droop beneath his large hands and instinctively stepped forward to wrap his arms protectively around him. "Okay. What do you mean, it was my scholarship?"

His brother's voice emerged from being buried against the top of his chest. "You got an outside scholarship, Sam. Did you never wonder why you never had to worry about paying it back when all the others on university scholarships were desperate to find jobs to help support themselves?"

"No. I was relieved. I was so grateful that I got the full amount, no strings attached. It meant I could concentrate on my studies..."

And then he realised what he had said.

"No." He unwrapped his arms and stepped back, catching at Dean's face with his hands this time and forcing him to keep looking at him. "No! _You_ were the strings? You've had to... You've been _paying_ for me all the way through College? With...yourself? Because of my scholarship? With that man?"

"No! No, Sam. It didn't become something I'll have to...pay until the moment you registered yourself as my owner. It didn't come into force until then so don't put that on yourself. I can deal with them. It don't matter what I've got to do: just as long as you wanted me to stay with you."

"Oh my God. Oh my God!"

And then he was pulling Dean tightly against his chest once more and he was _never_ letting go of him again. Never. Not to anyone. Sam felt the anger flow through him almost physically, he could feel the blood in his veins heating up to more than normal human temperatures. He was going to find these sick bastards that took all human life as being so insignificant, and slaves, his _brother's_ , as being even less than that, and _destroy_ them with extreme prejudice.

And if his blossoming powers could help him do that, then he was fucking well going to use them to protect his brother, no matter what Dean felt about him doing that. In fact he suddenly _wanted_ to use them: the desire to see just how much damage he could do to another being with them surged through him like a dam of hatred being released in his mind...

He forced himself to calm down. To think clearly. Not to say anything with the agents here listening that might incriminate him in the future with what he was going to do. "So, what do we do? If I didn't know what I was signing, what can I do about it?"

"They have the best lawyers. Believe me, the very best. Ours have already been over this with a fine toothcomb since we found it with Dean's ownership details. It will stand until you can pay all the money back for your scholarship, plus interest accrued, plus anything else since. That probably includes the latest hospital bills, and god knows what else has been added on in the intervening time. You really should have checked what you were signing when you were going through all the forms for College: didn't your dad ever tell you that?"

Sam bit his lip: their father had always been on about never signing anything! As far as he had been concerned, lawyers were taken from the same cut of cloth as the Devil himself. 'Verbal contracts and handshakes are binding, but never, _never_ , put your real name to anything in writing, son...'

"But I didn't sign _this_!"

"Unfortunately you did, sir. And with no stipulations or limits of access added at all in your favour."

Bobby spoke up, his voice cracking with emotion: "But why the group name on this document? If it's just _him_?"

"Anonymity perhaps, Mr Singer, it can't be traced back to one individual? We're not sure why. But why would someone _bother_ to do this, just to get their hands on a _slave_? No offence, Dean. But you really do seem to have caught someone's interest. If you tell us who, we could help?"

Hamill sighed as the green eyes flashed in his direction, but otherwise there was no response.

"Well, w _e_ know about it now. And we don't like slaves being abused. By legal owners or otherwise. Or used as commodities in a transaction _._ The FBI can handle the AE: our priority is Dean. We could take him into protective custody if you'd prefer, Sam."

"They'd find me," Dean warned. "They always do."

"Well then, the entire Bureauis going to be available at extremely short notice if you need us.Because we Do. Not. Like. _This_."

The two agents stood up to leave. Ford grabbed the oven towel and used it to bring the cooked pie out of the oven and put the newly made one in. "They smell good. Hope you enjoy them."

Dean shook his head against Sam's shoulder. Sam's arms were still tight around him, his chin resting against the top of his brother's short hair. "Got no appetite for them now."

"We'll be in touch. Erm... Mr Winchester?" Sam rested his cheek against Dean's head and glared at him. "Don't think about doing anything stupid. Dean can probably tell you better than anyone how unpleasant these people can be..."

Sam's thoughts went through _that_ conversation as well that evening as he sat and watched Dean sleep.

He had still had so many questions for Dean; had hoped that he might finally get some answers, but Bobby had forestalled him from asking by suggesting that Dean try and rest. It was only then that he had realised that his brother was physically shaking: the remains of his illness and that visit from the agents combining to overwhelm him.

In the end, Sam had made him take his medication from the hospital earlier than usual, and then had simply lain and held him in their small bed, worried about his health and feeling increasingly helpless as Dean had finally trembled himself to sleep. Really, Sam thought, it should have been obvious that he would have a nightmare after.

He now couldn't help but wonder exactly how many times his brother must have been held down in a bed and forced to do things against his will, or chained up somewhere and abused, because of their father.

And now how many times would he be because of _him?_

And then, to cap it all, his obvious arousal at being so close to his brother that very morning had freaked Dean out. Of course it had: Dean was getting nervous, understandably so, of what he might be forced to do next. Even by Sam.

Sam knew he should leave him alone because he wasn't being fair.

But he just couldn't bring himself to set up the small cot and sleep in it beside Dean's bed. Sam wanted to _hold_ him; he wanted to feel Dean's heart beat beside his own; he wanted to inhale the natural musky scent that Dean exuded, he wanted the tickle of his warm breath on the hairs on his chest during the night, he wanted to feel the warmth of his scarred bare skin, he wanted... his brother.

He was ashamed that he wanted him.

But he did.

So he sat and watched Dean sleep, going over and over both the conversations in his head until he felt his own eyes begin to close. Then with a sudden decision, he slipped out of his clothes and slid beneath the warm covers, pulling Dean's back tight against his bare chest and sliding his arms around him, slipping his hand beneath his brothers t-shirt to enjoy the warm muscled skin there.

Dean had got used to him sleeping beside him, so that's what he would continue to do. But nothing more. He would just have to be careful not to let his body betray him like it had done that morning: Dean must never know the true thoughts he was having about him. He would just have to keep reminding himself that Dean was his brother, and emphasising that to Dean as well. Just keep everything normal.

He and Dean were just brothers. They would _always_ just be brothers.

And Sam would have to try very hard _not_ to think about the fact that, really, they _weren't._


	17. He Told You To What?

HE TOLD YOU TO WHAT?

Sam stared at his cell.

It was Dean calling again.

He sighed yet another sigh. He knew how worried his brother would be that he had left in the night, _and_ he knew that he would be thinking that Sam might not want him anymore, which was breaking Sam's heart at the thought of it.

But he also knew that Dean would be _more_ devastated if he knew the _real_ reason Sam had gone.

He stared at what he had driven all this way to find. A pile of burnt remains of wood and ash. Some parts of large branches still whole and sticking out in ragged sections, most disintegrated to nothing and blown away in the wind. The remains of a funeral pyre.

John Winchester's funeral pyre.

He had driven all this way because this was the closest he could get to his dad. This was the last place that the man had been, even if it had been just his earthly remains. He stared at what was left of the pyre and got ready to do what he had come specifically to do.

He raised the sledge hammer that he had deliberately bought with him to do this, and began to smash the last few pieces of the pyre to tiny, _tiny_ little bits.

And while he was destroying it, he was shouting and yelling his complete and utter contempt for his father as loudly as he could. He had got over his disgust at him owning a slave, but only because he loved his brother so much that he couldn't imagine what his life would have been without him.

But the way John had _treated_ Dean? It had been bad enough that he had always seemed to be shouting at him; had left his brother so many times in charge of Sam, from a far too early age; had always pushed for more. No child should have had the pressure put upon them that his dad had put upon Dean.

But that had been the least of it. _Now_ Sam knew what _other_ pressures their dad had been putting on Dean. And he was sickened by it. And it seemed like every week, another and even worse revelation was still bubbling to the surface despite his brother's best efforts to conceal all of it, to never let Sam know what a complete bastard their dad had really been.

Which was why Sam had come here to destroy the last of the pyre. He couldn't tell his dad personally what he thought of him, although he so wished he could. Because their dad should _never_ have treated Dean the way he had.

And when the pyre was completely smashed, he turned his attention to the surrounding trees and an old fence, taking his pent up frustration out on everything except the one person who deserved it. And all the time he was yelling: "How could you? How _could_ you?

How could you _do_ that to him? How could you treat him like that? Didn't you realise what you were asking him to do in your deals? Didn't you _care_? He gave everything for you? He still would!

And how could you have put _this_ weight on him? Telling him he has to kill me if he can't save me? Have you any idea of what that's _doing_ to him? Do you realise how _ill_ he's been? All this stress! All this pressure that you've put on him! No wonder he was getting worse every time I had a vision! But _you_ won't care, will you? You didn't care last year when I kept calling you to tell you that he'd only been given a couple of weeks to live: why would you care how ill he'd been now?

But _he_ cares about _you_! It's eating him up! That fucking demon bitch told him you were suffering in Hell: it's eating him _up!_ He's blaming himself, dad! Blaming himself for your death! Says you should have just let him die! Wishes you had, so he wouldn't have to suffer at the hands of those men, dad! Just that one hurt him so bad. How many have there been? How many men have you done deals that included Dean with? Did you know how bad they treat him? Did you ever see the wounds, the humiliation in his eyes? Did you know what they _do_ to him? Did _you_ do that to him? Did you, you bastard?

He was your son!

Do you know what I hope about you in Hell, dad? I hope you're suffering! I hope they're torturing you every single minute! I hope they're _never_ leaving you alone! Because you don't deserve peace, you bastard! You shouldn't have _treated_ him like that!"

He had shouted himself out. He had smashed and pulverised everything he could destroy. Sam's arms and shoulder muscles were aching from raising the sledge hammer, his chest was heaving with the effort, the callouses on his hands were covered in brand new blisters, his throat was sore and dry from all the screaming...

And his cell was ringing again.

This time he nearly answered it, to try and ease what must be his brother's near panic by now. But if Dean should realise what he had done and how much he now hated his father, then that would break his heart worse than all of the abuse put together. Because Dean had and still so loved his dad so much, and had always loved Sam so much, and the thought that _he_ had been the cause of the loss of love between the two of them would be too much for him to bear….

No, Sam would instead go to the Roadhouse. He wanted to ask Ash if he could help him track down other children like him. _And_ he wanted to ask Ash if he was having any luck hacking into the National Archive: Sam so wanted to find Dean his little brother…

With a sigh, he started to head back to the car that he had stolen. He just wanted to get this done so he could get back to protect Dean. "From the men that _you_ let have him, dad! You _gave_ him to them! Would _mom_ have wanted you to do that? To do that to her angel? You bastard!"

In the end it was _Dean_ who found _him_. And luckily just in time to stop Gordon Walker from killing Sam, because word about the younger Winchester's increasing powers, and apparent resilience to a frightening new virus, was getting around. Something about Sam wasn't 'normal'. And not being normal in Hunter's minds made him a target.

Once Sam had dealt with this first threat, both the brothers knew they would have to be careful from now on.

Just as in all the rest of their lives, they could only really trust and rely on each other.

And Bobby, of course.


	18. The Tuxedo

THE TUXEDO

Even while they were looking for the yellow-eyed demon, the brothers felt the need to save people who needed help: it was what they had been brought up to do.

So they dealt with a deadly little girl ghost who wanted an eternal best friend, even if the intended friend wasn't actually dead. Yet.

Another ghost had Sam threatening Dean if he so much as set _foot_ inside the graveyard where the woman's remains were, memories of him being smashed against that headstone and the consequences being far too raw. Only to it to register as he was salting the remains in the grave that he had jokingly handed his brother a poetry book that they had found in the old house with an order to read it… a book that bore the same inscription on the inside cover as the name of the headstone… He went tearing back to the motel in a panic, to find an all but destroyed room and an irate Dean cursing fucking pointless literacy, and a pile of burnt papery ashes.

Then the slave's police record caught up to them both in a bank that had them trapped _inside_ with a shapeshifter by a SWAT team _outside_. Who now wanted Dean for armed robbery. Which Sam by now was realising actually counted against the _master's_ police record.

They spent a long couple of days searching a couple of hundred acres of wood, tracking down and waiting for a possible Sasquatch to finally show itself, only to realise that the _female_ human was in hiding because of her love-rival's spell. Once they had trapped and killed the witch she returned to normal, although she would probably always going to need to shave her body hair daily in future.

Sam got excited by the possible proof of a real life Angel, only to lose more of what faith he had when it turned out to be just the ghost of a priest, issuing his own brutal brand of justice for people's past demeanours.

A series of bloody murders had them trawling local bars of a College campus for something that was feeding off the fresh and very willing meat. Sam was in his element: he had missed this life so much. He thought Dean was enjoying himself as well as he flirted furiously with all the long-legged, short-skirted girls that flocked around the charming and handsome 'older' man. Perhaps when they had found the yellow-eyed demon and finished this, Sam _could_ return to Stanford, taking Dean with him this time...

But a mysterious text to his brother's phone had him turn suddenly serious and leaving the bar alone.

Sam followed him and was surprised to find Dean sitting against the hood of the Impala, staring down at his cell with an anxious expression.

Sam leant beside him. "What is it?"

"Nuttin. Let's just get this done and over with."

And his brother was getting up and going back inside. Sam stared after him: _that_ was weird. What had _that_ been about?

But it went out of his mind when he got back inside and noticed the predatory leer of the young man now at the bar: Sam had seen enough vampires by then to recognise one when he saw one. And a glance at Dean told him that he had seen the thing as well.

Trouble was, it had seen them as well, and recognised them as Hunters. It had disappeared again before they could get across the crowded room, but at least they now had a face to look for.

It took them the rest of that night and most of the next morning to track it down. Sam even suggested that they take a break and try again that evening, but Dean refused. He was determined to get the job done and finished.

Irrationally determined.

He disappeared for a while, his brother eventually finding him in an extremely rough squat surrounded by the drugged-up inhabitants. But one of them, with a wild claim of a man climbing up the side of a local building, gave them the clue that meant they got it eventually.

Sam was relieved to finally get back to the motel: it was in the late afternoon by then and he just wanted to sleep, eat and shower. Probably in that order.

So it came as a nasty shock when he opened the motel room door and stepped inside, only to come to an immediate halt. He stared across, not believing his eyes.

There was a _tuxedo_ hanging in a clear suit cover from the bathroom door frame. And beside the door was set a pair of polished, expensive looking black shoes.

Sam checked the lock, saw the light scratches of it having been picked and hurried to check that nothing had been stolen from their few possessions. By this time, Dean was also in the room but his only reaction was to cross to the door frame with a sigh and lift the suit cover down, reading the note that had been pinned to it: 7 PM. BE READY. A.

"What the hell?" Sam was snatching the piece of paper from him. "Who's 'A'? What is this? How did _that_ get there?"

"It's payment time." Dean mumbled. "For the hospital bill."

Sam stared at him as it clicked into place: "That text. That's what that text was about. From that man? That bastard in the bar? _That's_ why you wanted to get the job done, because you knew you'd have to be ready to go. I'll _kill_ him, Dean. You know I will!"

"No you won't, Sam."

"Why not? Give me one good reason why not, Dean?"

"Because you'd be dead before you got anywhere near him, that's why. This is….what I got to do. It's just a payment in a deal: we're used to deals, Sam. It's just payment for a service, nothing more."

His brother gestured at the smart black suit that definitely had _not_ been there when they had left early that morning, "How did it get in our room? How did _they_ get in our room? Have they been watching us all this time? Watching _you_ all this time? I'm not living like this, Dean. _You're_ not either! When this bastard gets here, I'm gonna finish this. Period."

"The deal's been made, Sam. You can't back out. If you never listened to dad about anything else, you understood that. Once it was agreed, it was bond."

"I didn't agree! I have _never_ agreed!"

"You signed the lien, Sam. That was _you_."

"I didn't know what it was!"

"Then you'd have made a pretty crap lawyer."

Sam glared at him: he was so irate. That bastard had got into their room to put a damn _tuxedo_ of all things in it with a written order to be ready, and Dean was just going to _follow_ it?

Over Sam's dead _body_ was he fucking going to follow it.

"You are not to do _anything_ with that…and you are _not_ going anywhere with him. And if I see him, then I will _kill_ him."

Dean sighed and tried desperately not to say anything that would make Sam even more enraged. "I have to, Sam" he muttered eventually. "And you _know_ I have to….

And even if this was Dray…that man from the bar, then you wouldn't stop him or do anything because that would get _you_ killed. Because these people _do_ that. If there's one thing I do know, it's that human monsters can be the worst sort of all. So, if it _were_ him, then you wouldn't do anything. Because _I_ wouldn't _let_ you do anything. Not when I can just go and pay the debt for the deal that was agreed…

But, this _isn't_ Drayton, Sam. This is…. This is the other one. The other man you keep asking me about. So there's nothing for you to worry about, Sam. Nothing at all."

"Nothing for me to worry about!" Sam was incredulous. "I don't know who these people _are_ , but I know how badly you were hurt last time! How many times have they done that to you, Dean? How many times?"

"It don't matter, Sam. Just let me deal with it."

Sam marched to the motel room door and leant defiantly with his back to it, determined to physically stop his brother from getting out and anyone else getting in. He was so angry that Dean was arguing with him: he had given him an outright order that he was not to go but Dean was insolently going to disobey. Sam was furious: he _had_ to get Dean under control. And there was no way he was going to let him get hurt by whoever this other man was either. No matter what, Dean was _not_ going through that door tonight.

How was he going to convince Dean that _he_ knew best and was doing this for his own good? He glanced moodily at his brother and saw him standing tensely, his stubbornness obvious in his stance.

Okay then, Sam, make him _change_ his stance. He relaxes when he kneels. When he meditates. Okay then: make him kneel, and try and talk some sense into him.

"Come here!" He was still so angry it came out as a snarl. "Come here! Just you kneel down there and you listen to me!"

"Sam?"

Why did his brother suddenly sound worried, all the defiance gone?

"I said, get _here!_ Do as you're told and get down there." He gestured by his feet. "On the floor, Dean. _Now!_ "

Dean bit his lip but obeyed. Gone was the usual act of being loud and confident, it had been switched off as abruptly as it had been that first time when Sam had realised that he was a slave: this was Dean as he really was, nervous and apprehensive about what might be about to happen. He crossed to where Sam was angrily standing and knelt where Sam had indicated in front of his brother, trying not to panic as Sam towered above him.

"Dean. I've tried not to do this but you have _got_ to start listening to me and doing what you are told. That is what you are _meant_ to do when all's said and done. And despite your worry over what will happen if you don't, you are _not_ going with this man tonight: I don't care _what_ he thinks he can or can't… what the fuck are you doing?"

Dean hesitated as he looked up from his position on the floor: he had already undone Sam's belt and had his fingers at his top of his brother's jeans, pulling them open to release the growing bulge beneath. "I…I. I assumed you wanted to mark your territory, Sam. Like dad used to before I went to pay his debts... I thought that was why you called me over…to remind me and them who I belonged to."

Sam stared at him aghast. What the…What had he just said? What…? He suddenly realised what a terrible mistake he had made. But Dean _still_ had his hands on him, and was looking up at him with those eyes, and those lips slightly apart…

What happened next took even _him_ by surprise.

He was on his brother before he could think what he was doing, his own large hands catching at Dean beneath his armpits and all but physically lifting him from his knees to a standing position. Then he was propelling him backwards across the room, Dean trying to stop himself from tripping as Sam half carried him, half pushed him until he fell backwards onto one the small beds.

Sam was immediately manhandling him fully onto the mattress and climbing on top, pushing his legs apart before falling full length on him, his lips seeking out Dean's with some urgency.

It was a violent first kiss.

Sam just wanted to taste every bit of his brother and he plunged his tongue into his mouth as deep as he could, wanting to claim every single piece of him.

Dean was _his_.

 _Nobody_ else's.

Then Dean was recovering from his surprise and kissing him back with fully returned passion, moving his hands to run his fingers through his brother's long soft locks. And his legs, even as restricted as they were in their tight denim covering, were wrapping around Sam's back, making Sam moan loudly at the implication of the intimate movement.

Then one of Dean's hands was leaving his hair, catching slightly in a couple of strands that had wrapped around his work-roughened fingers, to instead rub against his groin. Sam moaned again as he again felt the caress against the cloth of his boxers, followed by the warmth of Dean's hand as it crept inside to hesitantly seek its first ever association with the sensitive and very ready flesh waiting there.

He couldn't believe how they were suddenly here like this. He had tried so hard to contain his growing desire for Dean, but his rage at being so helpless in this continuing situation combined with the disgust he felt yet again for his father had simply exploded him into action. Action that he hadn't realised how desperate he was for.

And he was so relieved that his brother seemed to want it as much as he did: every bit as much, if his fingers and the way he was using his body to encourage Sam were anything to go by. Even as Sam was reaching to undo Dean's clothing, by feel only as his face was otherwise occupied with kissing every inch of Dean's neck; biting and nibbling at his flesh; sucking his mark onto him, he couldn't contain his relief that his brother was arching his back and neck for him, moaning and gasping with every new inch of warm exploration. Accepting his touch, allowing Sam to take control of the situation and of him...

Allowing him.

He was _allowing_ Sam.

Because he would. Whatever Dean really felt about what was happening, he would _let_ Sam do whatever Sam wanted to him. Because that's what he would do. Because that's what he knew he _had_ to do. That's what he had _always_ had to do.

Because he was a slave.

That was his life; was _still_ his life. Because of Sam's blunder with signing that lien, it might _always_ be his life. But even though he should be _furious_ with Sam…he _should_ be furious with Sam…he would still give him everything. Let him _take_ everything. Whether it was what he wanted or not.

How was Sam ever to know if _he_ was what Dean wanted or not?

And what if he wasn't?

It took all Sam's mental determination to force himself to get off his brother. It took everything he had to pull himself out of his brother's incredible touch. It took every last bit of resolve that he had in him to not just accept the gift however willingly or unwillingly it was being given, and instead to make himself move across to the bathroom without turning, in case he lost the impetus to keep walking, and lock himself in. There he ran the cold tap and all but plunged his head beneath it, trying to get back in control of his lust.

What the hell had he nearly just done?

It was a long few minutes before he felt able to re-emerge. He didn't even want to look at Dean in case he lost the battle within himself completely this time. It didn't help that his brother was now kneeling beside the foot of the bed, biting his lip and looking anxious that he had upset Sam somehow.

Sam snapped at him before he could ask what he had done, desperate to resist the urge to put his arms around him again and hold him beneath him, to have his incredible tasting lips so close and open to his own… "You better go and get ready if that's what you think you should do, Dean. Get yourself ready for your bastard. Go on! Get in there out of my sight!"

He couldn't bear to see the worry in those green eyes increase at the harshness in his tone. Instead he just made himself turn away, snatch up his laptop and slump in the chair. If he looked round, just once, and saw Dean's tears, then he knew he would _never_ be able to stop himself from simply ripping his brother's clothes off him there and then, pulling him up into the bed, and never letting him leave it ever again.

It was with relief as well as terrible shame that he finally heard Dean slowly get off his knees and move across the room, then the bathroom door close gently and the shower turn on. At least, just for the next few minutes, Sam could let himself cry as well without his brother knowing.

The next hour or so passed in complete silence. Sam tried to concentrate on the screen: it had been the same screen since he had turned the laptop on, sometimes slightly blurry, sometimes fully obscured by his still watering eyes. But as long as it looked as if he was engrossed, it didn't matter...

Dean stayed in the bathroom a long time, only slipping out to get some things from his bag and the suit, readying himself for whatever he would be expected to do that night, making the preparations as required by this 'other' man. Sam thought through all the ways he could kill him as he arrived. As the hour approached, he wondered perhaps if he would be better off not seeing this latest bastard who expected repayment for his brother's hospital bill. But his curiosity, and his instinctive desire to have a face to rage his hatred against, forced him to stay.

The knock at the door occurred promptly at seven pm. Sam started and wondered, then got up to answer it. The man on the other side was nothing like he had expected.

To be fair he didn't know _what_ he was expecting, but the man was nothing like it anyway. He was small for a start. Shorter than Dean in height. Definitely shorter than Sam, who felt like a gorky giant looking down at him. He was probably about Dean's age: no older than late twenties. And petite, but in no way did that detract from his masculinity. Probably about 5 foot ten; slim features; huge dark brown eyes; short but not cropped hair; a small well maintained moustache and beard; full lips, nearly as full as Dean's; and a confident, charming smile. The words 'a living Arabian knight' went through Sam's mind before he could blink once at the stranger.

And the man was smartly dressed in a fitted tuxedo and white shirt that showed off the slim but well-toned physique beneath. His hands were manicured, his accessories were expensive: platinum Rolex watch; a gold and diamond stud in one ear; gold cufflinks and signet ring that proclaimed his affinity with the accursed Alpha Exousia; hand-stitched Italian shoes. In his hands, he was carrying a small case.

He was stepping inside the door before Sam had managed his second blink. "You must be Samuel Winchester: you're even taller than you look in all the surveillance I've got of you. Very nice. But not my type. Aah... _there_ you are."

And now he was moving smoothly past Sam and heading for Dean who had emerged from the bathroom as soon as he had heard the door. Sam felt his heart hurt as soon as he saw his brother in _his_ tuxedo. God, he looked so handsome, even if he hadn't done the jacket up yet. Even better looking than usual.

And then his anger was returning as the stranger, despite his petite appearance, gave away his hidden strength by physically pushing his brother backwards into the wall behind him, lifting himself up on his toes and claiming his mouth for an intense and extremely passionate kiss. Sam saw Dean's eyes flick to him for a moment, and his brother's blush begin and deepen as he was forced to return the embrace.

Eventually the man pulled back and smirked at him. Small but perfectly in proportion long, slim fingers smoothed Dean's face, calming the red flush away. "No embarrassment tonight, Dean. You're on show with _me_. You know my rules: leave your inhibitions at the door. But you'll be fine. You _are_ fine. I bought a spare tuxedo in case your new master destroyed this one, but I'm glad he didn't. I had them both tailored especially for you, but I prefer the material in this one, it's silkier...

How are the injuries? Did that bastard leave any marks on you? I'll kill him if he did, you know I will. He shouldn't have touched you last time like that: it took the four of us to track down that Zirah-bhonk, not just him. He paid for what he did once we'd broken that door down: him and his damn brothers. Have you any scars still from it? Never mind, I'll find out for myself later. It's a good job we'll have to get a move on to get to the Dinner on time or I'll be having your master thrown out of here for an hour and finding out now!"

This was all spoken in a concise, English public school educated accent, and just as his lips hadn't stopped moving for the last minute since he had stepped into the room, neither had his fingers: they were all over Dean, from stroking his face and neck to slipping inside his pristine white shirt to touch and feel beneath.

Sam couldn't help himself: "Get your hands off him!"

"Now, now, Samuel." The deep brown eyes turned in his direction with genuine amusement. "You should be grateful I paid his bills for you in Knoxville. If I hadn't, then who knows, you might be in _prison_ by now for fraud. A fitting end for a would-be lawyer. Not your slave though, he'd have been out on the streets all on his own. Unattended. You should be nice to me. And while I'm on the subject, you had better learn to take more care of him. I don't want my Dean permanently damaged by your recklessness: _Hunting_? He's _not_ to be hurt. And if anything ever should happen to his face... I would hold _you_ responsible, Samuel.

Anyway." He turned back to Dean and held out the case. "Just the final couple of touches and we had better get going."

Dean sighed and took the case, moving to the nearest small bed to lay it down while he opened it. Sam saw his expression as he looked down at the contents. He crossed the room quickly to see for himself.

Inside was a cummerbund, exactly the mellow shade of meadow green as Dean's eyes. And three other items that Sam couldn't work out for a minute what they were: all similar in shape and style, but different in size. Hinged bands of fused platinum and gold, each about two inches wide. One was large, the other two smaller. Each had a soft green velvet lining covering what would be the inside when the hinges were closed, and there was a small lockable clasp on each, and strangely a small enclosed loop rising from the outer surface of each, formed from the worked metals.

But it was the colours of the embedded stones that caught Sam's attention the most. Each of the three bands were studded with glistening and glittering stones, all green, most again a near perfect match for Dean's irises. The largest brightest stone was on the big band, though, as the stranger reached to retrieve it from the case, it still didn't sparkle as brightly as Dean's eyes did as he blinked back tears of humiliation in front of his brother.

"That's a green diamond. From one of my mines. I had the collar commissioned for you as soon as I saw it. I paid for the slave who found it to be freed: do you know where he is now, Samuel?"

Sam stared at him blankly as he finally realised what the items were. The man, a blood-diamond mine owner probably amongst a lot of other things, continued speaking as if he hadn't really been expecting an answer.

"He didn't want to leave the other slaves: they were his friends. So, even though he's free, he now works at the mine and is responsible for their well-being. Having been one of them, he knows best what they need. I'm not a bad slave-owner, Samuel. I'm just used to having the best. Of everything. And I don't settle for less."

He was fastening the slave collar around Dean's neck as he was explaining. And locking it with a small set of keys that he took from his pocket. "It should fit perfectly without marking: I took the measurements when you were coming round from Drayton's asphyxiation game. Once I'd finished with _him_ for doing that to you of course. The other stones are a mixture: opals, alexandrites, more diamonds. It's only the colour I'm interested in. I wanted these to be perfect for you."

He was now locking the wrist bands in place. Then he tied Dean's bowtie himself, making sure that it and the collar of the shirt were loose enough to show off the sparkling and restrictive slave band beneath. "There. Hand me that."

Sam passed him the cummerbund in a somewhat stunned silence and watched as the man positioned it to his satisfaction around his brother's waist and buttoned his jacket for him.

"Okay. Everyone will know who you're with."

"Drayton will be really angry about this." Dean's voice was low and anxious.

"Oh, I'm counting on it, Dean. It might give me the excuse to finally _kill_ the bastard this time. Go and wait in the car."

With a hesitant glance at Sam, Dean obeyed, heading out to a dark blue Ferrari that sat outside along with two large black vehicles filled with suited muscle.

The man paused momentarily, his eyes fixed on the slave: "I've wanted Dean since I first saw him as a teenager. My father had him flown out to us as part of a payment for a Sultan's shamshir. Bastard had him drugged and held in a cage without water for the entire trip: my poor Dean was so sick when he arrived but he still tried his best to please. I never forgave my father for that. Whatever Drayton offered you for Dean, I'll double it. And _I'll_ make sure he's looked after. Think about it."

And with that, he had gone.

It was early in the morning after the morning _after,_ when Dean finally returned.

Sam had hardly slept the last thirty six or so hours, worried about his own more and more uncontrollable feelings as well as being afraid for his brother's well-being. It was with a considerable relief that he heard the door's lock being picked and a step that he immediately recognised as Dean's entering the room. He lay quietly and listened while the other man quietly undressed in the gloom and went to climb into the opposite single bed.

"Come here."

Dean turned in surprise, Sam could see how tense his body suddenly was in the dawn light, but he obediently crossed to where Sam was holding the covers back ready and slid in beside him. Even as he began to turn away, now well used to sleeping while being spooned by his younger yet much larger brother, Sam stopped him, instead pulling at his waist with his hands until Dean was lying facing him instead.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment.

It was Dean who broke the silence first: "You still angry at me, Sammy? I'm really sorry for what I did."

Sam raised his hand enough to gently stroke his brother's face. "Did he hurt you?"

"No." It was a genuine shake of his head. "He's not like that. He likes control, yes. And dominance. But not the violence that Drayton likes, not me having to _beg_ for... So, no: he didn't hurt me." He hesitated. "He said he'd made an offer for me. If you _are_ considering selling me, then... I'd prefer it to be to him rather than Drayton. If I'm allowed a choice: I know I'm probably not. That's if you're thinking about it now after..." The next words came out together in a sudden rush of panic: "I'm sorry for whatever I did wrong, I'll try not to do it again, Sam. _Whatever_ it was!"

"You did nothing wrong, Dean. _I_ did. And I wasn't angry at you, I was angry at _me_." He knew Dean didn't understand by the way the crease between his eyes furrowed deeper. Sam carefully moved even closer, stretching his left arm out so Dean could rest his head on it, still stroking his face with his right hand, running his thumb over his brother's lips even as he continued.

"I love you Dean. No, let me talk a moment." He gently covered the other's mouth even as it opened. "We're brothers. Always will be no matter what. I will always worry about you, always have your back, always be there to take care of you. And I know you'd give everything you have for me, even your life if it came to it. I _know_ that.

But I also...I think I also….I want to…do things to you. Maybe I shouldn't have started us sleeping in the same bed, but I love it too much to stop. I love your body being next to mine. And when you were beneath me… I want that again…. _so_ much. And I know I shouldn't.

Because _you_ don't want that.

Oh, I know you'd _let_ me." As Dean tried to speak again. "You'd let me do _anything_ to you. But you don't _want_ me like that. And I will _never_ force you. But I came so close...so _very_ close to just taking you, whether you wanted me or not. I was angry at _myself_ , Dean. But I was, and _will_ never be, angry at you. You might be my slave but you are not my possession. And I will never do that to you if you don't want it. And I am _never_ going to sell you. I'm just gonna have to find a way of dealing with my feelings about you. But that's my problem, not yours."

Dean nodded thoughtfully and with a lot of relief. At least Sam didn't want to get rid of him. He wriggled even closer so his head was tucked right in beneath his brother's against the top of his chest and neck. Sam could feel his soft short hair tickling against his chin and their bodies pressed together all the way down. His arms tightened automatically and held Dean there, and he knew he would have struggled to let go even if Dean had asked him to.

So it was lucky Dean didn't ask, but instead hesitantly spoke: "Sam. I don't _know_ what I want. I guess that's why I have so many one-night stands with the ladies: at least I know what is expected of me and I never have to see them again if I didn't do it right. _And_ I'm…"

"In control?" Sam felt even more guilty. And angry that Dean felt he had to explain. To anyone.

Dean shrugged against him. "But when I have to… with _them?_ And now _you?_ I don't know what's expected of me, not by any of you. I'm sorry if I keep letting you down. But I'll do anything as long as I can stay with you, Sam. You just say what…"

"Don't be sorry, Dean. And there shouldn't be _anything_ expected of you. Not by _any_ of us. Period. Come on, I doubt you got a lot of sleep these last two days..." He felt his brother snort a little, it tickled against the hair on his naked chest. "And I didn't either, because you weren't here safe with me. I need you here _safe_ with me." It felt natural for him to kiss the top of Dean's head and even more natural not to move his lips away. "Let's settle down for a while. We'll work this out together, okay?"

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean."

"I do…. _you_ know… I really do…"

He could almost feel Sam's dimples against his head, his brother's smile got so wide: "Yeah Dean, I know you love me too. Now shut up and go to sleep."


	19. Talking Round In Circles

TALKING ROUND IN CIRCLES

Sam stirred and stretched his arm across the bed, looking for the solid body of warmth that he expected to be there. He came to with a blink when it wasn't and sat up with a start.

He was relieved when he saw his brother was safe: Dean was kneeling fully dressed on the floor beside the small couch, working at his laptop which he had balanced on the low coffee table.

"Hey."

"Mornin'."

"What time is it?" Sam groggily turned to see the red digits of the clock beside the bed. "Jesus! It's nearly noon! Why didn't you wake me?"

Dean glanced round with surprise and shrugged. "You said you hadn't slept, Sam. Why would I wake you?"

Sam didn't know why. But he wished that Dean had. No, he wished that Dean had still been asleep in the bed beside him when he woke. He loved watching his brother open his eyes first thing in the morning...

He lay back down on his back, then hurriedly twisted onto his side with sudden embarrassment as he realised the height of the tent that he was making beneath the covers. Crap. Despite all his honourable intentions, he was as hard as ever for his brother.

"You want some help with that?" To all intents and purposes Dean was engrossed with a page on the screen; he hadn't even looked round. But he didn't need to, to know why Sam was wriggling in the bed.

"What?"

Dean looked down at his hands, then across to meet his younger brother's eyes without flinching. "Would you like me to give you a blowjob? Because I would, Sam. And I'm good at it." He laughed at himself humourlessly: "Believe me, I've had enough practice! But it wouldn't be a bother. Not for you."

"Wouldn't be a bother." Sam closed his eyes and tried to fight the prickling feeling in his eyes. That's how Dean saw doing something as intimate as that: 'it wouldn't be a bother'. "Not the most romantic suggestion I've ever had!"

He heard the sigh that his brother made from across the room: it was so deep and heartfelt that it sent shivers rippling through him that seemed to concentrate in one particular part of his body. Then a touch at his shoulder made him start: he hadn't heard Dean move from his position at all but now he was kneeling beside the bed. Kneeling beside Sam. Staring at him with those damned haunting green eyes.

"I tried to tell you at Bobby's, Sam. And I tried to tell you early this morning. I know I'm no good at words. Not like you. But...if you want romance, Sam, then don't look for me. I'm a slave. I'm _your_ slave. I'll do whatever you want, whenever you want, to keep you happy. And not 'cos I want you to keep me, but because I like to make you _happy!_

And I'll go with anybody that I have to, to keep you _safe_.

But... you've always dreamed of white picket fences and having dogs running round, and loads of kids, and thanksgiving with a large family around a table. That won't be with me! I'll be the slave on the floor in the corner. Or you'll have already gotten rid of me..."

His hand tightened on Sam's shoulder as the younger man began to argue. "I just need you to face up to what we are, Sam. What _I_ am. I ain't your brother. Or anything else that you think you want. Just... don't look for me like that."

Sam stared up at him, his eyes filling with tears. Before he could think, before he could question the sanity of what he was doing himself, he was reaching up with his hands to pull Dean's head down, bringing his mouth within range of Sam's, joining their lips together, trying to tell Dean everything that he _couldn't_ do with words in that moment.

It was the most wonderful kiss he'd ever had in his entire life.

But then Dean was pulling away, leaning forward to touch his lips to Sam's forehead instead, and getting up to return to his laptop. No, to the keys to the Impala which were beside it on the table.

As he reached for them he sighed: "You don't want me, Sam. Not the way you think you do. This has all been too much: we've gotten _too_ close. You need to really think about this and be sure. Because I'm not what you want, not really. I'll _never_ be what you want. After all, I'm such a slut!"

His face smiled as he threw back all of Sam's old insults aimed at him, but his eyes were sad. Sam sighed as he remembered how many times he had called his brother that, and found himself wondering how many times he had been actually going out to pay a debt.

"I'm going to grab some lunch. Coffee?" Sam nodded, unable to bring himself to speak, and then Dean was gone. With a sigh, Sam got out of bed and headed for the shower. A very long, _cold_ shower.

He had just finished drying his hair by the time Dean was back with containers of chicken, and fries for him and a salad for Sam, and coffees for them both. They sat and ate in silence, side by side on the small couch.

"At Bobby's!"

"Hmph?" Dean tried to respond through a mouthful of chicken.

"You tried to tell me at Bobby's! You _remember_ that conversation! You lying...son-of-a-bitch!"

His brother flushed a deep red and swallowed his food down with a reluctant gulp. "I was _hoping_ I wouldn't remember..."

Sam twisted in his seat to stare at him. "So? What _else_ do you remember from when we were at Bobby's? What about the visit from the FBVS? Any of that?"

The even deeper shade of red that covered Dean's face gave him the answer. Sam swore at Dean without malice and took his container of chicken away from him, putting his large hand against his brother's chest when Dean tried to reach to get it back.

"No more until I get some answers, Dean. Time for the truth now."

Dean glared at him but sat back. He knew he couldn't get away with feigning illness this time. Not that much of it had needed faking: the shivers caused from the bad memories had certainly been real enough. Although he _might_ have emphasised them just a little...

Sam considered: where should he start? He had so many questions that he had wanted to ask his brother ever since he had found out all of this.

"This...Alpha Exousia?" He decided eventually. "How did you? How did _dad_? Get mixed up with something like _them_?"

Despite himself Dean snorted. "That was the _easy_ bit, Sammy! Believe me!" His smirk died on his lips as he saw Sam's serious expression: okay, time to tell what he could. Without even realising he was doing it, he lowered himself off the couch and onto his knees down to the floor in front.

Sam watched this and nearly reached to pull his brother back up to sitting beside him, then realised that this was actually what he had wanted Dean to do that couple of nights before: to get settled into a 'safe' position in his mind, one that he felt he could talk from. So instead he also went down on to the floor, leaning back against the small sofa with his long limbs stretched out in front of him.

And he waited.

"It's not really that complicated, Sam. I'd had the mark of the AE years before I knew what it was. You…just don't get how hard it was to survive. When we were young, I mean. Dad just wanted to get that thing and he needed supplies and weaponry and information, and he had the two of us and we needed clothes and food and medicine and everything else… it was _hard_ , Sam.

And I tried to do my job, which was to look after you. That was how I could help, could best serve my master. And to be honest, if I hadn't, then I doubt I would have been there that long: dad made it so obvious that I was mom's choice, not his…

Anyway… Apparently… I don't know why… I caught their attention. I mean, what's so special about me, Sam? But anyway, it's kept us alive, kept us warm, paid for things you needed."

"What are you on about: the mark?"

"Oh, my tattoo. Dad was mad as hell about it: he didn't realise they'd do that. Making sure they staked their claim…" He was undoing his top shirts as he was speaking and removed them as well as his t-shirt to expose the upper half of his lean, muscled body. Sam had to swallow a couple of times as he felt his mouth start to water but he tried to concentrate on what Dean was saying.

His brother raised his right arm up above his shoulder, bending it at the elbow to rest his hand behind his head. Sam shifted his body closer so he could study the exposed hairless armpit, leaning right across his brother's naked chest as he recognised the inked marks that he had first seen on the FBVS agent's cell phone a couple of months ago.

He couldn't believe how he had never noticed before. There they were: right in the crease of Dean's underarm. Of course, he had never known his brother not to wear something that didn't have sleeves in some form, or not that he remembered anyway, and the few times they had managed to go swimming, Dean must simply have always kept his arm down. But there they were. Dean's slave tattoo. And the emblem of the AE.

"How have I never seen this?" He couldn't help himself from touching, resting his right hand against Dean's chest to stop himself from falling into his brother's body. Dean hitched away as his long fingers tickled him.

"Would _you_ advertise that you were a slave? No. That's kept hidden. The slave houses chose the underarm because it would be so painful to cut the tattoo out from: nobody would be able to do it to themselves. They didn't count on unscrupulous owners doing it though…"

"And the AE?"

"Mm, yeah. They put that on. Marks me as theirs. Despite your lien, Sam: don't you worry about signing that. You may be my owner in the eyes of the law, but they have a claim as well. As far as they're concerned, they always will."

"But… _How?_ " Sam's hands were now sliding around Dean's body to hold himself steady.

Dean sighed, studied his knees. "Drayton Emerson, Sam. He doesn't like to lose. Not at anything. And his father, who was as high up in the AE as anyone could get…

They were at that auction all those years ago. Somehow I'd caught the attention of them and a few of their acquaintances who were… 'partial'…. to boys, shall we say. Of course once Drayton and one of his brothers started bidding on me, the others stopped. Nobody was going to get on the wrong side of their old man…

But he was angry at his sons: going against each other in public like that. So he told them to quit it. And that's how mom and dad bought me. Just dumb luck, nothing else.

But Drayton doesn't like to lose. And he can get obsessed when he wants something. And you've already seen how possessive he is. Even when I don't actually belong to him…

Dad told me that that night: the night of the fire where mom… Well, we were in a room in the hospital. We had nowhere else to go: everything but what we stood up in and the car, had burned. Anyway he turned up there. Drayton. Wanted to buy me that night. Dad told him where to go. But he left his card. In case dad reconsidered….."

Sam couldn't believe this. That bastard must have been watching Dean his whole life!

"And dad told me he _did_ consider it, Sam. Said he had done for a moment. Then _you_ started crying and I comforted you and you stopped. And he realised that he needed me there because of _you_. So you _saved_ me, Sam! If you hadn't cried then, God knows what would have happened...

And of course, dad had drunk the insurance money for the house away so it wasn't covered. He'd drunk most of everything away before anyway... So when he realised he would need weapons and normal ammunition, _and_ silver bullets, and the rest of the stuff, then… I don't know why or when he got in touch with him. Probably going to sell me. But Drayton's old man intercepted the message...

Fuck, that man was frightening, Sammy. He remembered me from the auction: knew the interest in me...knew his _son's_ interest in me. But Drayton was engaged by then: bringing a child slave to the bedroom every night wouldn't have been a good start to the marriage. And old man Emerson wanted the connections that that wedding would bring…

So he set the deals up instead. Dad needed anything: he could contact the AE for assistance, and I could 'spend a little time with them' to say thank you. Simple as that. Drayton was furious but he didn't dare go against his father while he was alive.

Dad did try, Sam: he tried to keep me away from them. He knew what it meant, what would happen. You probably don't remember us shivering all one winter in an old cabin that we'd broken into because he couldn't afford us to stay anywhere. Course you wouldn't: you learnt to walk in that old place. No heat except the open fire: got fucking freezing when it went out. Hardly any food. And dad would go and take any work, anything to try and get some money. Left us alone because there _was_ no one else. And then he nearly crashed the car on some ice trying to get back to us, and couldn't work at all for three weeks. We would have starved then, Sam. Truly. It was up to me to step up. And….I didn't like it, but I knew I had to."

"From how old? How old were you, Dean? When this started?"

"It don't matter, Sam… I…It had already happened anyway. At the Auction House. A slave's a nothing: we're not important. I didn't like what they made me do at first, but I did it. For you. For dad. And then as I got older, I learnt how to get pleasure out of it myself, so it's turned out okay."

"You're talking shit, Dean. And this isn't okay. Sex slavery is illegal!"

"So they call it something else, Sam. Wake up!"

"It's sex slavery! What else can you call it?"

Dean sighed: "it happens, Sam. You can wave all the placards you want, but that's what slaves get used for…"

"Yes, but…." Sam suddenly stopped. "You know I went to demonstrations against slavery?"

Dean glanced at him. "One of the AE's main houses is in California. I always came to check up on you on the way."

"I never knew. I wish you'd come to see me. I…missed you."

"You'd tried to leave before, Sam. I still have the scars from dad's anger at me losing you. Then four years without a word from you. We'd probably never had spoken again if I hadn't come to ask for your help. You'll be looking to go again. This life isn't what you want. _I'm_ not what you want."

And there they were: back at the beginning of the discussion again.

Sam sat up, his hands having slipped down to curve around Dean's naked waist as they had been talking, his own body close enough for his long legs to be resting up against and slightly over his brother's knees. He bit his lower lip as he stared at his brother. "You're wrong, Dean."

"How many men have you been with, Sam?"

The directness of the question made him blink with surprise. "I never have, Dean. There's only _ever_ been one that I've wanted, you were right about that. And I still do."

"Don't give me that, Sam. I _saw_ what you wanted. I only actually met Jess for a few minutes but she was sweet and…. pure. And innocent. Completely the opposite of everything we are. _That's_ what _you_ want. You go and find another Jess, Sam. You keep looking: she'll be there somewhere. Go live your white picket fence life."

And with that he was pushing Sam's hand away and getting easily to his feet, leaving Sam feeling slightly stunned sitting on the floor. And uncomfortable, not only from the thinly carpeted hard floor, but from the effects of staring at Dean's ripped and very available body.

That had been strange: was Dean upset because his younger brother was lusting after him…or….was it….?

And then suddenly he realised just how badly his running away to College had hurt the older man. When Sam had decided to leave, he'd tried to convince himself that Dean would be alright, that his life would be what he wanted because he _wanted_ to stay with their dad as a Hunter. And Sam had deliberately, and stubbornly, not contacted his family since. Not even Dean.

But really he had known even then that he had only been selfishly thinking of himself.

And now of course he knew just how wrong he had got everything: Dean had _never_ had any choice but to stay. Even when his younger brother had abandoned him without a thought.

And if Sam had abandoned him once, then he could do it again.

For the first time he understood what Dean was trying to tell him: his brother could sleep with him without a thought because he was a _slave,_ and in his words, that's what slaves did. For a deal made, for their dad, he would for Sam as well if that's what Sam wanted. But he knew that Sam would always want more than just a pleasurable night because Dean had brought him up to be _better_ than that.

So Sam had to be _sure._

Because if Dean allowed himself, just _once_ , to have feelings for Sam that went beyond the usual brotherly bond, hell: beyond the usual slave/ _masterly_ bond…. And if Sam _still_ left him even after that….?

Sam was scrambling to his feet: how could he explain? How could he convince Dean that he was serious about him? That no matter what, even if Dean could only see him as a brother, he was never going to leave him, would never abandon him like that again. That this wasn't about the slavery, but about Sam's definite and strong _feelings_ for Dean. That his brother need never be afraid of Sam just disappearing without a trace again and leaving him.

But even as he was trying desperately to think of the words, he was brought up short by Dean turning from the small sink where he had run a glass of water. Turning without any expression, without any flicker of emotion. It had all been bottled up and buried deep somewhere inside his soul, yet again. And Sam knew the moment to speak had been lost for the time being.

Instead Dean picked up his discarded laptop. "There's a hotel in Pittsburgh. Two guests found dead in similar circumstances. No sign of how they died but their faces were frozen in fear. Locked rooms from the inside. Window shut both times…. Thought we might take a look?"

"Okay."

So they went. It turned out to be a lethifold that had crept into the new free-standing mirror that had just been delivered into the room. From there it had found it easy to seize it's victims as they had slept, to deliberately give them nightmares and feed on their terror.

The only weapon that could kill it? The Zirah-bhonk that those AE bastards had obtained for their dad. Even as Sam used it to stab the lethifold repeatedly out of existence after his brother had lost the game of 'rock, paper, scissor' and lured it in to his sleeping form, he was imagining using it on Drayton and all the other men who had enjoyed the price Dean had had to pay to obtain it.

And when he saw Dean's wide eyes immediately look for him when he had managed to finally awake him from his troubled sleep, he knew he was right in thinking that his brother was as much afraid of him leaving him as he was of Sam selling him.

He was determined to somehow convince his brother that, no matter what, he was never going to just leave him again. Not ever, no matter what happened between them.

And then Dean's worst fears came true.

Sam just vanished without a trace.


	20. And On Again

AND ON AGAIN

It took Dean a week to track Sam down.

He was relieved to find him: he had thought that…. he had wondered if Sam had just had enough of him again. It wouldn't have surprised him if his brother had just walked away: he _couldn't_ follow the order that Sam had given him not to go with Drayton or the prince, or any of the others from the AE, because they had a claim on him. If he refused, then the money that Sam had agreed to take would come due for repayment. And Sam simply had no idea of just how unpleasant men like these could be…

He knew that Sam thought he was simply being disobedient. And who wants an unruly slave? Certainly not someone who until a few short months before had been following his life's dream at College, and then had found himself playing nursemaid to a very ill as well as a very badly trained one.

He was _expecting_ Sam to go again. He knew he would: it was only going to be a matter of time. He was only waiting for the decision of abandonment, or of selling him. Because why would anyone want to keep such a useless, disobedient slave as he was?

But at least he had found him for the moment: he would just check that Sam was alright, and if he was, then just leave him if that was what he wanted. Watching from a distance of course: he still had their dad's order to save or kill him to follow…

Dean was surprised when Sam couldn't remember anything from the last week. Even more surprised when they'd realised that he'd beaten a fellow Hunter to death. Even _more_ surprised when Sam hit him with the gun after he had refused to kill him.

All of which was nothing compared to Sam's emotions when he finally regained control of his own body at Bobby's and realised that he had _shot_ his brother while under the demon's control. Even while Bobby was patching Dean's numerous wounds, Sam was hovering around them both, fighting to resist the urge to just push the old man out of the way so he could tend to Dean himself: not just by wiping away his blood, but wiping away the fears that he could now see so clearly in Dean's eyes; holding him tightly and telling him that he hadn't left deliberately, that he _never_ would, that he wanted Dean in his arms, wanted him in his life. And no matter _what_ Dean had to do in the way of service to the AE, Sam was _always_ going to be there with him.

But with Bobby around, perhaps that conversation would better wait until he could get Dean alone.

So they went to investigate strange occurrences at a College, stopping on the way to their motel to speak to the janitor there.

But Sam's hopes that here would be the place that he could at least start to _try_ to convince his brother that his feelings for him were real and that perhaps Dean could relax enough to allow himself to…maybe _start_ to even feel something back for Sam…: well, it all went pear-shaped for some reason. Everything went wrong. They just fought all the time which they never normally did. And for the first time in a long while, they slept in separate beds.

It took Bobby's arrival, and logic, to tell them that they were being tricked. And they were both embarrassed about how they had behaved in the meantime. But a tension had been created between them that Sam couldn't see his way around for the moment…

So they decided to try and find a ghost that appeared regularly once a year. Only for her to find them instead. The main problem being that she didn't realise she was dead….

And Sam still couldn't find the words to say to Dean. He had even got nervous about asking to hold his brother at night again, worried about appearing to order him, nervous about upsetting him. Although he really did miss Dean's strong body in his arms so much.

The only thing that relieved the slight tension was to keep moving on.

"There's been a killing in San Francisco. Looks like something a werewolf might do."

"Then what are we waiting for?"


	21. After Madison

AFTER MADISON

Dean helped Sam back into their motel room.

The younger Winchester was distraught: he had stayed the night with the beautiful Madison, had had sex with her, but it had ended with him having to kill her because she had chosen death rather than remain being the werewolf that she had been turned into by circumstances out of her control. She had already killed: she didn't want to risk doing it again.

She knew she couldn't control the monster by remaining alive: the only way she could take control of it was through death.

And Sam could see the similarities with his own situation and knew he was facing the same decision.

Or worse, having to put the weight of the decision on his shoulders of his poor brother.

He sighed heavily and slumped with his back against the door.

He couldn't look up as the other re-crossed the room and put his hands around his shoulders. "Sam?" Then Dean was stepping closer, reaching to pull Sam down into his hug. Sam's arms went around his waist in response as his tears began once more.

And his senses were all suddenly heightened as his face settled and nuzzled against Dean's shoulder: he breathed in his musky scent; he felt his warmth; he felt his brother's strength as their chests closed together; he was aware of Dean's heart steadily beating against his own body.

He had liked Madison. And Dean had encouraged him to stay the night with her, _really_ encouraged him, which he had found upsetting as well as a relief. And he had _liked_ Madison. And their night together _had_ been good… _very_ good. But…

 _Here_ was everything that kept him determined to keep living, to keep fighting. To keep being determined to be human. It was all here. Everything that was _right_ about his life. All here in his arms. And he had had enough of trying to resist how he felt.

Before he could think about what he was doing, his hands were raising as if of their own accord to cup Dean's chin and tilt his head to meet Sam's as he straightened his own position enough to find his brother's mouth with his own.

"Sam?" But it was a breathless sound.

"Dean. I need you. I know what I said about not wanting to force you, but please...I need you. Please." And he was extending the kiss, begging for Dean to open his mouth for him by running his tongue along his lips.

And Dean did.

Dean finally broke the kiss, he could feel his brother's desire pressing against him. "Sam. Are you sure? I don't want you to hate yourself..."

"It's never been about me hating myself, Dean. It's been about _you_ hating me. I don't want to force you, I will _never_ force you to sleep with me just because you're my slave… but… I need you, Dean. Right now I really need you. And I've always wanted you. _Always_. I always will. And I will _never_ leave you. But please. If you hate the idea of being with me then I'll stop. I'd never hurt you. Not like this, I'd never hurt you like this. But please, Dean. Please. I need you so much, baby. Please."

By this time his mouth was everywhere on Dean's face and neck, his brother's body arching in his arms to allow him access as he bent to reach even more of the man that he had wanted his entire life.

"Tell me to stop and I will, Dean. Tell me you don't want this and I'll never ask again. I swear, Dean. I don't want to be like those men. I don't want to be like dad. But you've got to tell me, now baby please, before I can't stop myself because I want this so bad. I _need_ you _so_ bad right now."

Sam felt the tears prickle again in his eyes as Dean suddenly pulled back from his arms. He was being rejected: he should have expected it. The one thing he had always wanted but could never have. Then his breath was being exhaled with a squeak of surprise as his brother's right arm swept around the back of his thighs and he was being picked up, bridal style. He had always known Dean's arms were strong, but now they seemed doubly safe as well.

His brother always made him feel safe. He always had.

Dean carried him to the nearest bed and deposited him onto it, immediately clambering next to him. "Really, Sammy? Are you sure you want this? No going back after."

But even as he was beginning to straddle the larger man, Sam moved to block his legs by lifting his own. With a small twist and a pull, his long legs were wrapping around Dean's back, _high_ on Dean's back and he was pulling his surprised brother down onto him and deep into his embrace.

"Sam? Are you sure? You've never _been_ with anyone, let alone let them…"

Even as he was reaching up with the top half of his body so he could lock their lips together again and his hands were sliding inside his brother's denims and boxers to explore, Sam was whispering into Dean's mouth: "I'm sure, Dean. Never been so sure. I want regrets, Dean. I know you're my slave, but I want to be yours. Make me belong to you, baby, _please_. I want to be _yours_."


	22. A Knock At The Door

A KNOCK AT THE DOOR

Dean pushed the door that he had just come through closed with a quiet click. A noise behind him had him turning in immediate response but not fast enough as he suddenly found himself meeting the wood with his face and unable to move.

Even as he gasped for breath, he was being caught at with strong hands and forced to turn around, only to find himself trapped and all but crushed: the solid door at his back and the even more solid wall of a large body pressed against his front, his hands now being held high above his head in a vice like grip.

He looked up at his captor with some surprise.

"Sam? Are you mad at me?"

"You disappeared into that trailer all afternoon, Dean. I know you were excited about being on the film set. But all afternoon? Do you have idea of what I was feeling? How close I was to breaking the door in and dragging you out of there? _Do_ you?"

He sighed as his brother blinked with truly genuine surprise, then watched as the gears in Dean's brain finally began to click into place. "Oh God, you're upset at me. I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't think…"

"You never do, Dean." Evilly, he leant his weight even more against the smaller body that he knew he must be getting close to squashing, and rubbed his own abdomen and groin area against the other man. The sigh of pleasure that Dean involuntarily gave almost made him forgive him.

 _Almost_.

"I know you have looser morals than I do, Dean. I know that. _And_ I know why. And you _warned_ me that I'd have to accept it. But knowing you were in there, with her….it _hurt_ , Dean. I got jealous. Really _jealous_."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'll try not to do it again…" The other was eager to reassure him, but Sam wasn't fooled. He reached his hands up further, using their long length, and his unbreakable grip around Dean's slim wrists, to force his brother almost up on his toes in his position against the motel room door. Forced him to arch his back a little to try and keep his balance, forced him to be pressed against more of Sam's immovable length as Sam got impossibly even more into his personal space.

There wasn't a single gap to be found anywhere between their bodies as Sam finally relented enough to run his tongue along Dean's lips to ask for access. Which was willingly and immediately given.

Sam smiled to himself as the kiss deepened. It shouldn't have surprised him but it had, at just how much his brother took for granted that he was to be dominated in the bedroom. Of course he would: he was a slave. He did as he was told, no matter _what_ he was told, and he had done for just about his whole life.

But it had still surprised Sam, who had been used to hearing the satisfied sighs and moans through countless thin motel room walls from numerous girls; many of whom on realising that Sam was related to Dean had smugly informed him that his big brother was a very gentle, generous and thoughtful lover and that Sam could do no better than to try and copy him.

Which indeed he had, all his life.

So it _had_ been a surprise when Dean had turned out to be almost completely submissive when it was the two of _them_. Although he was now satisfied that Dean was more than willing to be with him and wasn't feeling pressured in any way, he had allowed Sam to lead to the point where the younger man had had to hint, ask, beg and finally give outright orders for his brother to obey and follow. He knew why, he understood _why_ : the bloody outlines of tight slave collars around his brother's neck and wrists were a memory that haunted him still.

Butit now meant he had been learning about finding his own Dominant side in the process, which was something that Sam had never thought of himself as having, but actually was _very_ much going to enjoy exploring. (And doing a lot of research about when he was _meant_ to be identifying possible jobs….)

Although they hadn't gone very far in the way of exploration yet. Sam had already promised himself that the first thing he was going to do as soon as, indeed if _ever_ , Dean relaxed enough to genuinely allow him to, was hold his brother against a wall and make love to him until he had melted into a puddle of sated bliss. But for now, just a passionate kiss would have to be enough, before he encouraged his brother to move to the bed with him…

By this time, Sam's mouth was on Dean's neck and throat, and his hands were undressing them both as they still stood against their door.

Dean lowered his arms as his brother released his wrists to instead wrap them around Sam's broad shoulders. Just as every other time he was amazed, and relieved, at how gentle and patient his brother was with him: Sam could and should be taking him by force, demanding him as his _right_ , which indeed Dean was. But Sam seemed willing to wait for Dean to be completely ready before taking that final step between them: something that Dean knew he didn't warrant or deserve.

He held Sam tightly as his mouth explored Dean's body: he had grown up into something that Dean was incredibly proud of, even though he knew it had nothing to do with him. But he loved the younger man so much that he knew he'd follow his Sammy anywhere, to Hell itself if he had to, or even better, somehow take his place.

Sam smiled as he felt his brother grow increasingly compliant against him as his touch got even lower.

"I'm sorry I upset you, Sam."

"You didn't, Dean. I just get jealous. I expect you to make it up to me, though."

"Whatever you want, just say it."

Sam's mouth was back on his: " _You're_ what I want. Come over here." He started to walk backwards, pulling his brother with him, heading approximately in the direction of the beds but reluctant to break from Dean enough to look where he was going.

"I didn't realise you were so insatiable, Sam."

"I didn't realise that being with you would be so incredible, Dean. But, man, you are amazing….you've ruined me…and I want you to take me. Right now. That car ride back was far too long: I was almost making you park your Baby up somewhere and dragging you into the rear seat!"

By now he had found the nearest mattress. With a push from his long arm, Dean was falling onto it with Sam immediately following.

Even as he managed to get Dean completely naked, his brother muttered at him: "Did I ever tell you you're a needy bitch?"

Sam smirked: "Shut up and work your magic, jerk. And no more disappearing into trailers unless it's with me!"

"Okay, Sammy."

And so their life together went on. They were still looking for the yellow-eyed demon, but in a way, they were both hoping they would never find it. Or it them. In case the price of doing so was more than either of them were willing to now pay.

They exorcised a poltergeist in Louisiana that was terrorising a family-run hotel: the spirit was angry that its previously almost reclusive existence with just the one elderly, recently deceased, female inhabitant of the large house had been shattered by it being sold with the resulting noise and bustle of three meals a day and lots of customers. Even as Sam was reciting the exorcism, he was eyeing up the large double bed of the room they were presently in and wondering how much it would cost to stay there. A treat for his brother on his un-birthday perhaps…

"Mind on the job, Sammy!" as his brother tried to fend off an old freestanding wardrobe that was impossibly and seemingly intent on smashing him through the wall.

"Sorry." But he still found out the price before they left.

Then to his chagrin, they ended up in prison.

Deliberately.

And Sam found himself watching how his brother just seemed to fit in. How did he do that? And why wasn't he worried about how _well_ he fit in?

And Sam tried not to think about how small the cell was and how intimidated he felt by the lack of space, and he tried not to complain as he knew it must be nothing compared to how being chained to a wall for days or weeks, or years, at a time must feel. Or being held in a cage. How small had the cage on that plane been? Even that second, smaller AE bastard seemed to have been disgusted by that. And would he ever be able to ask Dean?

And would Dean ever _tell_ him?

But he was glad to finally get out of there. And especially to get away from the FBI agent now determined to hunt down his brother. And by implication, as he was Dean's master, _him_ as well.

But his worry over being caught by the law went out of the window when Dean failed to return from checking out some old warehouses one night. Sam was frantic, searching them all desperately until he had finally found his brother, barely alive and at the mercy of a djinn.

His anxiety only barely decreased when he realised that Dean had had to undergo the horrific ordeal of killing himself in his enforced dream-to-death as the only way of saving himself. And to save the girl that he had realised was also in trouble…

Sam was pacing with the phone in his hand.

He replaced the receiver and smiled at his anxious brother: "She's going to be okay, Dean. You managed to save her in time. Now, how are _you_?"

Dean nodded, too emotional to really be able to reply. Sam came and sat next to him, putting his arm around him.

"Why is it _our_ job to save everyone, Sam? Haven't we done enough?"

Sam bit his lip. He had asked himself that very question all his life. Had argued it with his brother and their dad so many times. But _it hurt_ seeing Dean question it. It hurt far more than he could ever have realised it would.

"It's worth it, Dean. It _is_. And I'm glad you dug yourself out."

Then he couldn't help himself: he had to ask. "Did you want to stay?"

He felt the warmth of the breath against the top of his chest as his brother sighed. "Even when I knew it wasn't real, I wanted to stay, Sam. You were happy with Jess, even though you and me weren't close. Not like here. We weren't even proper brothers there: you couldn't stand me. But… I'd have liked to see you married, and happy. Like you want to be…. And mom was there….But it wasn't _complete_. So I had to come back." He came to an abrupt halt in what he had been about to say and removed himself sharply out of Sam's grasp, getting up and wandering across the small room.

"What do you mean?"

"Nuttin. Forget it."

"How do you mean, it wasn't complete...? Oh." Dean reddened as Sam stared at him in sudden understanding. " _He_ wasn't there, was he? _Billy_ wasn't there. The djinn _couldn't_ put him in your fantasy because you don't know what he would look like. You're still looking for him, aren't you?"

"Just forget it." But Dean's head was lowering and his voice was now muffled. There was no way that Sam wasn't going to him: he was across the room in two long strides and had Dean back in his arms before the smaller man could block him.

"Dean. We'll find him. Let me help. Somehow we'll find him."

"No good trying, Sam. Just forget it. I'm just tired: gonna get some rest."

"No, I can _help_. Dean, let me help. Please."

"Stay out of the National Archives, Sam. We've got enough trouble with the FBVS _and_ the FBI without you bringing anymore down on us..."

"But..."

"I said no, Sam. Just forget it."

Sam released him and stepped back with some considerable irritation. But it _had_ reminded him that Ash didn't seem to be making any headway with the search, even though he had been really excited about the challenge of breaking into one of the most secure Archives that there was in the country. But every time Sam had asked him about his progress, Ash always seemed to be in a rush to go somewhere or do something, and would contact Sam another time... which to date he never had.

Sam determined to call him the moment Dean had fallen asleep that night.

Dean leant against the wall and looked at his feet. Then he nodded as if making a decision and fumbled for his wallet. "Sam. I know you want to help. I'm sorry I snapped at you. But...well...I've never shown anybody this... Never told anyone…"

He was interrupted by a low knock at the door. The brothers looked at each other in surprise, then Sam stepped towards it, checking through the peephole, but unable to see clearly who was outside.

He opened the door.

Only to find a gun pointed straight into his face and a large muscular hand against his chest forcing him backwards into the room. Behind the man were others, all with guns. And behind _them_ was...

"Drayton." Sam heard his brother's voice catch with fear as he saw the man.

The man was as immaculately dressed as he had been the last time Sam had met him. But there was no way that his eyes could be mistaken for friendly this time.

He stepped past Sam without a single glance, focused only on his prize. Dean stood straight to face him as he approached, very aware that they were in serious trouble. Then the tall man was in his personal space and he was being forced to look up at him.

"Finally tracked you down. Did you think you would stay off the grid for long? You must have _known_ how _angry_ I would be that you let _him_ bring you to the Society Dinner. Of all people, you let that little _bastard_ bring you. And did you stay the night with him after? You fucking little slut."

"I didn't have a choice. You _know_ I don't have a choice. Not in any of this."

Then Drayton was leaning over Dean, backing him into the wall behind him. "Then I'm going to _give_ you a choice. You come with me. Now. Or I kill _him_."

He gestured in the direction of Sam, who responded angrily. "You get out of here. You are _not_ hurting him again!"

His words ended with a cry as the gun that had been pressed against his face was used suddenly to strike against his temple. The pain caused him to fall to his knees, only to find himself jerked to a halt as the muscular hand caught a handful of his long hair and forced him to remain kneeling with the gun once more against his forehead.

"Your choice, Dean. And he's going to accept it this time. When you leave this room, is your 'brother' going to be alive? Or dead?" He raised his hand in a signal to his man to pull the trigger.

"Alive!" Dean managed to choke his words out amidst a rush of panic. "He's going to be alive. I'll come. I'll come with you, Drayton."

He was knocked off his feet by the force of the blow to the side of his head. "It's Master! Or Sir. You need to be taught manners, Dean! And you had better learn fast!" His hand was in Dean's short hair, pulling him up to his feet only to knock him down again.

Dean fumbled the wallet he had still in his hand and dropped it, automatically reaching to pick it up again. He cried out in pain as his hand was deliberately stamped on.

"Leave that! You don't _need_ anything! You have nothing. You _are_ nothing. You will do as you're told. Or I will send my men back for _him_ , do you understand?" He had dragged Dean back to his feet yet again and was banging his head sharply back against the wall to emphasis every sentence he had just spoken.

Dean tried to get his tongue to work through all the blood in his mouth. "Yes s...Yes Sir."

"That's better. Get the collar and cuffs!"

This was an order to one of the other men who was carrying a case: Sam recognised what it was for this time. But these bands weren't decorated or made from expensive metals: these were formed from cold hard steel with no padding to protect the wearer at all.

And they were tight. Dean's feet were kicked out from under him and he was also made to kneel as the bands were forced upon him. Sam felt tears form in his eyes as he saw his brother wince, his skin catching in the tight join as the collar was fastened around his neck and locked securely into place. The wrist bands soon followed.

Then the chains were being produced. "Short or long, sir?" Sam recognised the tone for what it was: all these men were slaves. All were terrified of their master.

"Short. Get his hands up behind his back and chain them to his neck. Let him choke himself for a while, it will keep him quiet on the journey. And I want a secure lead put on him."

Even as the strong chains were being slipped through the purposely included spurs of metal on the slave bands, Drayton was leering into Dean's face. "Get used to these. You won't be out of them again for a long time."

His man handed him the thick rope lead once it also had been fastened to the neck collar and he used it to force Dean to his feet, whipping him with the end of it when he wobbled slightly against the wall, the back of his head already dripping with blood. "Don't try anything as we leave, Dean. Any shout. Any notice taken of you at all. By anyone. And your 'brother' dies. Here, Sam."

And Sam was flinching as something small and hard was thrown at his face. He looked down and saw a dollar lying against his knees.

"Payment." The man sneered. "That's my offer this time. I'm taking it you accept. I don't care if you don't: you should have been more sensible and taken the last one. I'll be arranging to have the new ownership forms drawn up in _my_ name."

He nodded to the man still holding Sam down on his knees. Before Sam could tense, the gun was again used as a cosh and Sam was out cold.

"Say goodbye to him Dean." Drayton mockingly whispered in his new possession's ear. "You won't ever be seeing him again. But whether he has a long and happy life, or meet a very abrupt ending, is up to you now."


	23. Help From An Unexpected Source

**Note: to Samanthawolfe: you definitely are NOT getting on my nerves with your comments! In fact I have turned into quite an email-slut every time I post a new chapter, hoping that people say they still like the story. So thankyou to everyone for your lovely comments.**

HELP FROM AN UNEXPECTED SOURCE

The pounding in Sam's head was worse than anything he'd ever known. He felt nauseous, _worse_ than nauseous, and didn't want to open his eyes. Something had happened. Something terrible. But he couldn't think because of the pounding in his head.

Then it hit him. Or rather: he knew _what_ had hit him. And he knew why.

They had taken Dean.

That _bastard_ had taken Dean.

And Sam was going to find him and kill him at the very least, because if that bastard had _hurt_ Dean, then he was going to be made to _wish_ that Sam had just killed him.

Just as soon as Sam could force himself to open his eyes and sit up without throwing up.

He tried to move and heard himself groan from the pain hammering through his temple. Carefully, gingerly, he put his hand up to touch the weeping, bruised lump, wincing despite himself. He moved his arm back to his side and grasped the sheets beneath him in his large fist, desperate to fight down the pain. He needed to get through it. He needed to get after Dean. To get after that bastard.

And kill him.

Why were there sheets beneath him?

Sam gripped harder. That was definitely the material of motel-thin sheets in his fist, and he could now feel the lumpy softness of the mattress beneath him. Yet he had been on the floor when he had been struck, hadn't he? He had been on his knees on the floor. He was _sure_ he had been.

So how was he on the bed?

With an effort, and a groan he couldn't contain despite himself, and a fresh wave of nausea at any slight movement, and an overwhelming smash of agony at the brightness of the light as it hit his tortured eyeballs, he opened his eyes and tried to sit up.

"Ah, you're awake. Take your time, Samuel. Everything is being taken of."

That voice…? That was….? Desperately he tried to get his vision to focus from double to single images. And stared.

There, sitting calmly in the chair beside the small bed he was now lying on and sipping from a small cup on a saucer, was the second AE bastard that had brought the jewelled slave bands to collar his brother with. Dean had referred to him as the prince, and from what Sam had seen of his money and power, and the amount of muscled bodies that he was realising were also in the room, he found himself believing his brother. "What..? How…? They took Dean! _He_ ….took Dean!"

"I know Drayton did, Sam. I apologise: I thought he'd probably try something after the Dinner, but he took my men by surprise."

"Your….men?"

"Oh yes, I've had Dean under constant surveillance ever since I returned him to you. They were supposed to report to me every morning and evening. When they didn't last night, I sent Nine-twenty there," he indicated one of the numerous men at attention in the small room: Sam didn't like the look of him, he thought that even Dean would have struggled to take him in a fair one-on-one fight, and he got the impression that fighting fairly would be the last thing this tall, strong man would do. "I sent him to find them. Their throats had been slit. He immediately came here and found you, but not my Dean. But don't you worry, my pet poodle is on it."

"Your…..pet.… _poodle?_ "

Sam felt that he was in a dream. It had to be: he _must_ be dreaming that his room was full of large, muscled men and a prince of wherever sitting drinking tea from a cup and talking about _poodles_? Had he himself been got by the djinn? But why would he dream _this?_

And where was Dean?

"Can I have a drink of water?" He had to shake off the dizziness and nausea so he could start to think clearly.

"Serve him!"

All the men immediately stood straight as the order was snapped, and one hurried to the small sink to fetch a glass and fill it. As the crowd of dark suits parted, Sam gaped in amazement.

On the small table was his open laptop. And leaning over it, hard at work at something was the FBVS agent Hamill.

"You're working with _him?_ " But as the man glanced up from his work and bit his lip with obvious embarrassment, Sam realised the truth. "No. You're working _for_ him! That's how he knew Dean was in the hospital! Because you told him!"

"You needed the bills paying, Samuel. What would have happened if I hadn't?" The prince was unperturbed, even amused.

"I'd have figured something out," Sam snapped at him. He couldn't believe this!

"Of course you would have." The sarcasm in the bastard's voice made Sam want to beat him like he had that Hunter when he had been possessed. But he wanted to _remember_ every blow he struck this time.

"Yes, I fucking would! Dean's the most important thing in my life and I would have got him the best attention somehow! And I will find him and get him back, so you and all the other bastards from your elite little club can stay the hell away from us! I'm telling you: no more deals! It's over! They're done! And so are you!"

"Don't raise your voice to me, Samuel. I don't appreciate it." The deep brown eyes glittered with more evil than any black-eyed demon's could. " _Dean_ will tell you what I ordered to be done to the last person who was stupid enough to talk to me like that! But you're upset. And hurt. So I'll let it go this once.

And as for you finding Dean…. You have no idea where he is. And you wouldn't stand a chance against Drayton's men: he will have his own army there by now.

And I must say, I don't think you're looking after my Dean very well. It took you long enough to find him when that creature took him: I was very nearly having to give the order for my men to go and get him out anyway, it was getting that close. And letting my gorgeous man go to _prison_? No, I've tried not to interfere: tried to let you learn how to look after the beautiful pure soul that Dean is. But you've been failing at it. Miserably. We _will_ be discussing what is best for him when this is over.

But don't worry, we'll get him back soon. My little pet there is finding Dean as we speak, and my men will go and fetch him back. And Drayton will no longer be a concern that you need worry about. You can take my word on that."

Sam fought himself to remain calm. How dare this arrogant slimy little bastard talk to him like this? And how dare he refer to Dean as his? Over Sam's dead body would _that_ ever happen. He wanted to tell this bastard that. But…

He had to admit that he had no idea where to even _start_ looking for his brother. And Sam had no doubt that Dean was being hurt wherever he was, possibly seriously as the man had been so angry at him, which meant the quicker he could find and rescue him the better. So if this piece of shit, with his fucking stupid little cup and his fucking stupid pet names, _could_ help, then Sam would be sensible to let him.

He bit his tongue almost in two as he fought his anger down to controllable levels. That could wait: Dean, rightly, was the only priority here. For both of them, himself _and_ this little 'royal' AE bastard. Focus on that, Sam.

"How will we find him?"

"We?"

Sam felt even more blood fill his mouth. "Sorry. How will _you_ find him?"

The prince smirked. "The advantages of having money, Samuel, is that it can buy tremendous assets. Ones that few others can have: 'pets that can access the FBVS network and request for trackers to be turned on' assets."

Sam choked on his glass of water: "Trackers?"

The amused patronising glance that the other gave him nearly caused his temper to spike again, but he fought it back down. "Why do you think the FBVS have such an incredible reputation? Especially their feared 'Bounty Hunters' that no slave dare run from?" He laughed outright now. "There's no such thing, Samuel. The Bureau doesn't need them. Not when every single slave has a tracker included in their chip."

"Wait! What?"

"Every single slave in this country has a tracking device implanted in their spinal cord."

Sam resisted the temptation to smash the stupid little cup in the other man's stupid bearded face. "So, you can turn it on and we can find Dean?"

"Correction, Samuel. _He_ can turn it on." He nodded in the direction of Hamill. "Although I am starting to wonder what's _taking him so long!"_

This last was said in a raised voice: not quite a shout, but in a sharp tone and with enough forceful anger in it that Sam started from sudden surprise almost as much as the FBVS agent did. As did all the other men in the room: obviously the temper of the prince was something to be avoided. At all costs.

"Nearly there, your Highness." Hamill hurried to reassure him. "I've needed to bypass a lot of red tape and regulations to get the signal sent to this laptop and only this one. It's taken time to falsify the necessary authorisation."

"Why only my laptop?" Sam finally felt the nausea to have gone down enough to be able to slide his body to the edge of the bed and put his feet down to the floor.

"I don't want it coming back to _me_ , Samuel." Sam blinked at the implication behind the prince's scornfully spoken words. "And it's only to one laptop because we don't want any other agents of the Bureau picking up the signal and joining us while we're getting Dean out of wherever he is. That would make things _very_ complicated."

"So if they realise their system's been hacked, then _I'll_ get the blame?"

The other met his concerned expression straight on with something close to a smirk: "It's _your_ laptop, Sam. Who do you _think_ they'll be coming after?"

"There, your Highness. The request has been authorised: the tracker's been turned on. The signal's coming through now."

The agent looked very small in his chair as suddenly all the other suited men in the room were crowding around him, watching the screen as a steady bleeping noise began to be heard, and an image that looked like the USA as if viewed from a satellite flashed on the laptop and quickly zoomed in and down to a group of buildings that Sam didn't recognise at all as he hurried to join them.

"It's the ranch." The other men had: they were already on the move, gathering their bags and cases which Sam now realised were filled with assault rifles, revolvers and other weaponry that the men had been occupied in checking while they were waiting. "His ranch in Texas: he's taken the slave there. Get that thing to pinpoint where the guards are."

Hamill reddened in the face at the order from the prince's large slave bodyguard but obeyed, working the image and filtering it to highlight any infrared image around and show the heat of any humans, guards or otherwise, around the set of buildings. There seemed to be a lot of red dots concentrated around where the signal was: Sam felt his heart sink.

"Take it out." Again Hamill obeyed and drew the image back enough to show the perimeter of what was a large fenced area. With what would probably be guards all the way round.

The tall slave with a number for a name was already on his cell to someone: "Yes, we've got the trace. It's the ranch in Texas. We'll need some info on the lay-out, can you get us what we need? Meet us there: stay out of view, we'll group up first. We'll have to remove some of the exterior guards before launching a full offensive. Yes, we're on our way now. Highness?" This was addressed to his master, waiting for permission to get the rescue under way.

The prince nodded. "Go. My Dean is not to be harmed in any way, or you will _all_ pay, do you understand?"

"Highness." And they were going. All of them. The prince as well.

Sam was stunned. "Wait!" There was a pause as they all turned to stare at him. "I'm coming! You're not getting Dean without me!"

The prince came towards him, almost with a humouring expression of condescension on his face. "Dean would want you safe, Samuel. Always: _you_ are his priority, his pride. He will do _anything_ if there is the slightest hint of a threat made towards you. Stay here safe. I'll bring him back to you as soon as I'm satisfied he's well enough."

His words were cut short as Sam drew himself up to his full height of six foot four and angrily stared him down. "You are not listening to me. _I_ am getting my brother back. It is you and your organisation, and your bloody ridiculous feud with this Drayton that have put him into danger. So I am not asking, I am telling you. _I_ am getting Dean. And God help any of you who are so stupid as to get in my way!"

He could feel the tension increase in the room, knew that there was a good chance that he would be killed before the men had got back into their cars. He didn't care. His brother was in danger and Sam was going to rescue him, and Death itself wasn't going to stop him. He was going to get Dean away from these men for good.

The prince regarded Sam for a long moment. Then he nodded: "You're correct, Sam: this _is_ my fault. I should have kept watch on Drayton as well and made sure he didn't get _near_ Dean. So my men are going to get him out of there as soon as possible, and I will be making _sure_ he's kept safe from now on."

And with that he was departing, along with his entourage of muscled bodyguards. Sam swore in consternation and grabbed up his boots and the keys to the impala, desperate to try and follow the two huge four by fours as they left. But the powerful vehicles sped off at well over the speed limit even as he was still getting the car door open.

Sam slammed his hand down on the top of the hood in frustration and threw one of his boots across the car park.

"He really means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

Sam started and turned: he had forgotten the presence of the FBVS agent. Hamill was standing in the open doorway of the motel room, holding Sam's laptop in his hand.

Which was still bleeping.

"He means _everything_. Can we follow that?"

"Of course. But his highness _is_ right. These are two extremely dangerous men going up against each other, Sam. Getting in the middle isn't a sensible place to be."

"Don't you get it? My _brother's_ in the middle of it! They put him there! Somehow he's become the trophy of a twisted winner takes all!"

"He's just a slave, Sam."

The agent never saw the blow coming but he felt it break his nose. Even as he collapsed with a squeal and tried to contain the immediate gush of blood, Sam was snatching the laptop and trying to work out how to extend the signal onto a virtual roadmap so he could follow it.

"Son of a bitch!" Hamill was struggling to his feet, still with his hands covering his face. "You've got a kick like a mule!"

He shut up quickly as he realised there was a revolver aimed directly at him, held by a very steady hand. "It'll mean a world of trouble if you kill me, Sam. You'll be the rest of your life in prison."

"If I lose Dean, then I might as well be dead. He's my whole life: he always has been. So _I'm_ going to find him, _I'm_ going to get him out of there, and _you're_ going to help me. Isn't that what your Bureau is meant to do?"

The agent snorted and wished he hadn't, given the flow of blood from his nose: "Save that speech for my partner! His dad was a slave: owned by the same family for thirty years, treated as one of them, allowed to take a lover and have Ford and his sister. Until some jewellery went missing, then his old man was strung up from a tree faster than he could blink. Turned out the woman's seven year old granddaughter had borrowed the stuff to play 'dress-up'. Ford saw his dad die: he would free every slave if he could and imprison any slave abuser. Me? I'm getting closer to when I can retire and looking for a nice top up in my pension!"

"Well, if you want to live to see that pension, then you'll _help_ me."

Hamill stared at Sam. The threat in the snarl had been serious. Deadly serious. The gun was cocked, ready to be fired. And Hamill was suddenly in no doubt that it would be.

"What is it about this slave? I know he's good-looking, even _I've_ noticed that, but what is it that they will kill for him and you'll die for him? 'Cos you _will_ die if you get in the way." But even as he was muttering the questions in annoyance, he had wiped the worst off his face and was crossing to the laptop and adjusting it so the signal could be followed.

Sam didn't want to risk not keeping the gun on Hamill, but he was also trying to quickly gather together his and Dean's few possessions as the agent worked. Luckily they had been brought up to always be ready to move on at a moment's notice: it had only taken once or twice of losing childishly cherished items to have learnt to pack everything away in their bags immediately they had finished using it, so he soon had everything together.

Risking a final look around the room, Sam realised Dean's jacket was slung on the back of the door. As he hurriedly crossed to unhook it, he kicked something that was on the floor. It was his brother's old and very battered wallet: the one Sam had jokingly promised to throw out and replace many times because for some reason Dean couldn't bear to be without it. He had even known Dean to put himself back into dangerous situations to look for it. It was almost his second greatest love after his Baby.

Well, perhaps that honour went to pie. But the wallet was a close third.

Sam picked the scruffy and faded leather object up with reverence. He was going to find Dean and return this to him: nothing was going to stop him. "That thing ready?"

The agent nodded: "We can follow the trace. It will lead us right to Dean. As well as a whole lot of trouble."

"We?"

Hamill looked down at his still bloodied hands and went to the basin to wash them. "I don't like the way they've been treating Dean either. I can see your point: they've got him caught him between them in some sort of weird one-upmanship contest. But he doesn't belong to either of them! He's yours! And I think you're crazy. But I'll come, if only to try and talk you out of whatever you're going to do."

"That will be difficult." Sam commented as he made his revolver safe and stowed it away in the back of his pants.

"Why? Because you're determined to die for your slave?" Hamill was picking up the laptop and following him as he led the way back to the Impala.

"No." Sam told him as he stowed all the gear in the trunk. "You won't be able to talk me out of it, because I really have no _idea_ of what I'm going to do."


	24. At The Ranch

**AT THE RANCH**

 **Note: Warning for violent and unpleasant scene. Although I'm guessing that if you've already read this far, you're kind of expecting it!**

It was a long, tiring, non-stop journey to Texas.

The only breaks they got was when the Impala needed gas, and either or both of them would grab whatever sustenance the station had to offer or run to the restroom. Sam was driving as fast as he dared over the speed limit, hoping that having a FBVS agent with him would be useful if he got stopped for speeding.

For the first few hours they sat in complete silence aside for the constant bleeping of the screen on Hamill's lap.

"Will it make that noise anyway? Or is it connected to Dean somehow?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is he okay? Is it telling me he's okay? That he's still alive? Or will it just keep making that noise even if he's….?"

"He'll be okay, Sam."

"How can you know?"

The agent sighed. "I may not understand their fascination with your brother, but the fact remains that they both are. They're infatuated with him. And it's not just to spite the other: they each really want him as _theirs_. Drayton might be angry at Dean: he might even be abusing and hurting him as we speak. But he wouldn't do anything to risk _permanently_ damaging him or mutilating him in any way, because he wants him to…. Well, you know what he wants him for."

"And that's meant to make me feel better, how?"

Hamill was silent again for a long moment. Sam got the impression that he wanted to say something else but was hesitating.

"What?"

"The prince may be desperate to get Dean out of there because of his own desire for him, Sam, but at your motel I was getting the impression that this is far bigger even than that. The others from the organisation are watching and he needs to save face if he wants to be their leader. Snatching Dean may prove to be Drayton's undoing, because…well, if he _does_ go too far and kills him, then I think he'll have the entire AE down on his head."

"Excuse me?"

"Sam, I don't think you realise just how long Dean has been around these people. He's grown from a boy into a man in front of their eyes. We know your father did his deals with old man Emerson, but he never saw the other individuals, or very rarely. But Dean… he _knows_ them. _All_ of them. He's been at their most secret meetings. He may have been there as the entertainment for the night, courtesy of your dad, but he's _been_ there.

And people like these don't leave witnesses walking around, trust me on that. There's only two possible reasons I can think why your brother is still alive: one, that they all trust _him_. They trust him not to breathe a word about them no matter what. And for what I saw of Dean when I met him…. He's far too intelligent to open his mouth about them: I doubt he ever will, even to you. And if _you_ were ever threatened to try and force him to…. well, there's enough people like me on their payroll to counteract that."

"And the other?"

The agent sighed. "You probably won't like this, Sam, but... it… well, it's almost as if…. It sounds strange but despite what they do to your brother, it's like he's the group's _pet_.

Seriously. If Drayton's stupid enough to kill Dean, then I get the feeling he'll have far more to worry about than just the prince. And if the prince _can't_ get your brother out alive, then _his_ position in the AE will seriously be in question. Especially when it was him who caused this situation in the first place…."

There was another long silence in the car.

"So…." Sam was trying to think this through. "So what are the 'rules' in the AE about two members going up against each other like this? Isn't that the whole point of organisations like this: that they're supposed to have each other's back no matter what?"

"I would guess this is unprecedented in their history. As I said, it's not a good situation to get in the middle of, even as much as you obviously love Dean. He wouldn't want you to put yourself there, Sam."

"He might not want it, but I'm doing it. And actually, right in the middle might be the very best place to be…"

Hamill stared at him but Sam was done talking. He had a lot of thinking to do and a good few hours still to drive….

Sam decided that his idea of a ranch and an extremely wealthy person's idea of a ranch were two entirely different things. He was expecting fairly basic rustic buildings set in a large expanse of land, possibly quite dry and dusty land; with corrals for horses opposite; perhaps an old stable block; and to be honest, not much else.

This certainly wasn't that.

They had followed the signal until the image had gradually magnified in view until it only could hold something nearly the mirror of the close-up one that Hamill had originally brought up back in the motel. The only exception to the image being that there was now a large group of red dots gathered near on the outskirts of the perimeter, out of view of the nearest guards on the other side of a small copse.

"Do you think that's the prince's men meeting up with whoever they were communicating with?"

"I'm guessing so." The agent responded.

Sam nodded and turned the Impala in the direction of the trees, away from the expensive-looking ultramodern white buildings complete with fountains and manicured green lawns that nestled behind high electric fences and manned solid gates. "And not a horse in sight," he thought as he headed towards the group of slave soldiers, still hoping to catch them before they could execute the mission they had been planning to storm their way into the exquisite fortress.

To his relief, they did, but only just. Although the scale of what was about to happen shook Sam. The prince hadn't exaggerated when he had mentioned armies. This was seriously going to be a small war because, from the number of red dots still showing inside the complex, Drayton was probably just as well prepared to defend himself.

There was no friendliness this time as Sam and Hamill were dragged out of the Impala as soon as they pulled up and taken to the prince at gunpoint. He looked exasperated to see them, but endeavoured to maintain the appearance of being calm and in control.

Although as Sam studied him now with the knowledge of Hamill's information, he could see that the shorter man wasn't looking as immaculate as previously. In fact, he looked harassed and anxious, and was glancing around occasionally as if….as if he himself knew he was under scrutiny. Sam found himself wondering that if they could draw the satellite image back a little further, just how many more pairs of watching eyes would be around them, ready to report on the events imminently about to unfold?

But the prince was talking at him. "Mr Winchester. I _had_ hoped you would be sensible and let me handle this. I did try to ask nicely, for the sake of your brother. And _you?"_ This was addressed to the FBVS agent who had lowered his head. "Why did you allow him to come here…?"

"I brought him at gunpoint." This was Sam's cue. "He had no choice because I would have killed him, don't doubt me on that. But I need to talk to you, _before_ all this starts."

"And what would _we_ need to talk about, Samuel. The only thing that matters is getting your brother out, I thought that was your priority."

"That's _my_ priority. But I'm thinking it's not as much yours, not anymore."

The prince blinked. "And what _is_ my priority, Samuel? Because I can assure you, at least one person in those buildings will be killed in retribution for every single new mark put on your brother's body today."

"Your priority is keeping your position in the AE. And I'm guessing the other members are wondering what you're going to do, and watching to see if you're _really_ going to storm a fellow AE member's property. If you're really going to _kill_ him. That will surely go against all your rules. Bastards like you are meant to stick together: that's the power basis _behind_ the Alpha Exousia. You all work together. And _they_ will know that and _you_ know that. If you strike against Drayton, they will be wondering who else you will strike next."

"He has my _Dean!_ "

"He has my _brother_. Let me go and get him back without you having to break your rules: you'll lose everything at your precious AE if you do."

"I would risk it!" The shorter man was spitting up at him out of sheer temper, but Sam had caught the nervous glance around that he had given when Sam had mentioned other eyes watching them right now.

" _You_ would go in full force: all that will do is result in a massive standoff with a lot of shooting and a lot of death. _I_ am good at sneaking into places: that's what us Winchesters do! That's what our dad taught us: creep in quietly, get set up, kill the monster, get out before any unwanted attention is attracted. If I go in and get Dean out, then you can take the credit for it without losing the respect of your peers, and without having them worry that they will be next on your list."

"Drayton will be ready, Samuel. He is no fool. He will already know we are here."

"No. He will know that _you_ are here. You and your army. He won't be expecting me to go in on my own, he will be bracing against a full-on attack."

The prince glared but to Sam's relief he was listening, And thinking. "I will not forgive myself if Dean is badly hurt, Sam. And neither will _they_."

"Then let me go and get him."

The smaller man stroked his beard while he contemplated and caught the eye of his lead slave. They shared a glance. Then the prince was turning back to Sam. "You have one hour. Then we come in to get Dean. If we hear shots before that, then we come in to get Dean anyway. _He_ is my _only_ priority, Samuel. He always _will_ be."

"One hour, okay." Sam was relieved and anxious all at the same time. One hour. "Can you show me exactly where he is? Are there any plans of the layout?"

The slave nodded and showed him what they had. And Hamill clarified it further by matching the buildings with the still bleeping image on the laptop. "Are you going to be okay alone?" He muttered in Sam's ear. "I can come as backup…"

"I'll be better on my own." Sam replied, but he was grateful to the older man for the offer. In a way the agent was beginning to remind him of Bobby. "Just try and stall them as long as you can to let me get Dean to safety before they start a war."

"Good luck, son."

'No time like the present', Sam thought. And he was off through the trees and heading for the fortified area where his brother was being held. 'Just please let him be alright'.

Hamill folded the laptop lid down as he stood behind the prince and his lead slave, and watched as Sam disappeared from their view. 'Brave lad', he thought. Could he do it in only one hour? But he knew that Sam would either succeed or die trying.

"Nine-twenty." He heard the prince murmur to his slave. "Start taking out the external guards. Quietly, just as we planned. Full assault on the buildings as soon as that's done: tell the boys to be ready. And I am _not_ interested in anyone coming out alive except my Dean. _He_ had better be alive or don't bother returning yourself. Do you understand? No Other Survivors. And if the AE don't like my methods, then I'll beat _them_ all into submission as well.

And make sure my private jet is ready to go as soon we get to the airfield, and get my personal medic on there in case: the sooner I get Dean home the better. And have some strong sedatives ready: you know how my gorgeous man _hates_ flying… Get on with it!"

He was turning away as he was giving the last order and his gaze fell on the agent standing there. Hamill felt himself give a shiver at the other man's expression: not for the first time he wondered if he was fully human. Then the prince was stepping so close as to be in his face.

"I should be angry at you for bringing the younger Mr Winchester here, but he has proved to be quite relentless when it comes to his brother. This will actually work out better, so you are forgiven. This once. Don't ever cross me again: I would advise you to remember that lovely wife that you want to spend your retirement with… "

And with that he was walking away without turning. Hamill stared down at the laptop in his hand and lifted the lid a fraction until he could hear the muffled and still regular bleeping noise being emitted. With a sigh he retraced his steps to return the device to the interior of the Impala….

Sam was nearly at the edge of the compound. Nine-twenty had quickly shown him what information they had and he had been relieved to see that although the fence was high, it wasn't as 'electrified' as the warning signs proclaimed. As long as Sam could slip between two of the areas where the guards were posted without being seen, he would be able to cut through it with wire-cutters. He and the slave had agreed on the best place to try, especially as it would mean he could hopefully run to the cover of the nearest building.

Just as long as he wasn't seen getting to the wire, snipping through it, and running inside the plush compound, everything would be fine!

But in his favour was the fact that all the guards both inside the area and on the fence were intently occupied on looking outwards, waiting for the large group of men beyond to attack: Sam was in no doubt that Drayton knew that the prince and his men were there. And as long as all eyes were on _them_ , he might just get away with this.

Whether through careful planning or just plain dumb luck, he made it safely to the side of the first building, via a series of short dashes to any cover he thought he could get along the way. He wasn't interested in this one though, nor the main ranch-house. It was the one set slightly back and apart from the others further down the drive, the one that looked like a cross between a large garage and a storehouse: _that_ was the one that the signal was coming from.

Carefully he slipped across: unnerved by having not seen a single living soul on route to it. This was going _too_ well: he was walking into a trap. But he'd walk into Hell itself if it meant getting his brother back.

Sam indeed found himself in a garage: the black limousine was parked there along with a few other extremely expensive cars. But no people, although he could now make out raucous laughter and jeers from somewhere. So where was that coming from?

Sam moved further in, using the cars for cover. Until right at the rear of the building he found two doors. One that opened out onto the fertile grounds of the estate beyond. And one that led down some steps to an underground bunker-like area. It was down there that the sounds were coming from.

Carefully, with his gun in his hand, he crept down the steps until he was faced with a solid steel fire-proof door that had been left slightly open.

Sam carefully peered around the metal, trying to see what lay beyond. He was correct in his impression that it was a bunker: a purpose-built one with thick concrete walls set beneath the ground. Sam was impressed at the strength of the trackers to have managed to send the signal so clearly out from this area. And grateful that it had, because he would _never_ had found Dean without it. Despite his hatred of the short, bearded royal bastard, without him Sam would not have a clue where to start looking for his brother. Dean would just have vanished without a trace.

The bunker seemed to be used partly as a control centre: set all along one wall were a multitude of screens that had obviously been linked to numerous CCTV cameras. All, Sam was relieved to see, were trained on the outside of the perimeter, and at least four of them showed the large group of the prince's men from various angles. He seemed to have been correct in his hope that no one had noticed one lone individual sneeking on to the estate.

Two young male guards, probably yet more slaves, were lolling in their chairs in front of the screens, mainly watching the images there, but both kept risking glances behind them to watch what was happening at the other part of the large room. Sam shifted his position so he could also see.

And then his stomach lurched and he wished he hadn't.

There were benches set around the edges of the concrete area. And racks with items set out on them: whips of different sizes and lengths, some with one thong, others with multiple thongs, some weighted at the ends in echoes of the notorious cat'o'nines. There were riding crops of different flexibilities and both paddles and batons of different weights; chains of every conceivable length and numerous assorted collars, some studded with spikes. And manacles of differing sizes. And other assorted things that Sam didn't immediately recognise and wanted to think about even less.

There were solid circles of steel purposely embedded into the concrete walls, floor and ceiling, obviously with the intention of use as the means of chaining a victim and holding them in any position desired. And beneath one of the ones on the ceiling, one that still had chains hanging from it that had yet to be tidied away from their recent use, was a large puddle of still shining fresh blood.

A few men were resting on the benches, obviously tired from their 'turn'. And more than a few men were crowded around a bench with a rough blanket thrown over it that was in the middle of the floor on a large soft rug. And thrown over the bench and the blanket was Dean.

He was naked and down on his knees, forced to bend over the low obstacle by the heavy chain attached to the collar around his neck and pulled tight through an eye of metal set in the floor offset to where he was facing. It meant he couldn't raise his head more than about two foot off the ground, which was the perfect height for the man knelt in front of him who was forcing himself repeatedly into Dean's mouth. His ankles were also chained behind him to two more loops set in the ground forcing his knees wide apart, rendering him ready for the man who was behind him and almost crushing Dean into the bench as he enjoyed himself: taking sick, perverted pleasure in raping the helpless and chained man.

Sam swallowed down the vomit that threatened to rise into his own mouth and tried to make himself breathe calmly. He was going to be no use to his brother if he allowed any emotions to control what he was going to do next. Whatever it was.

He risked another glance.

He could see blood still dripping down from Dean's back where the lashings must had ripped the skin off in long strips and darkening fist and boot sized bruises all over the rest of him with the exception of his face: Drayton had obviously remained in control enough not to risk disfiguring the beauty of his trophy.

Sam wondered about how his brother was holding his hands up behind him until he realised that a metal spreader bar had been locked to each of the manacles on Dean's wrists, efficiently holding them rigidly in position about one foot apart. He wondered why the men hadn't just chained them together, but as the bastard raping Dean suddenly caught at the bar and pulled on it, forcing a choking gasp of pain from his immobilised victim as both of his arms were forced backwards painfully against the joints of his shoulders at exactly the same instant, Sam understood. And felt even more sick.

There were nine men around his brother: all with satisfied, lustful, gloating expressions on their faces that Sam wanted to shoot off individually. Plus there were a few guards, all watching the on-going scene of repeated rapes with a lot of interest. The bastards were all getting off on it. Sam determined to kill every one of them.

But how?

The man at Dean's face came with a moan and slowly pulled away with a groan of pleasure, causing Dean to choke and splutter for much-needed air. "Oh God, Dray! He's so incredible! I'm so sore, but I just can't resist another go at him!"

"I'll lend him to you for your birthday, Elliott."

Sam realised with a shock that there was Drayton. He hadn't realised the man was among his brother's rapists as he had had his back to where Sam was hidden, and he was dressed in casual clothes, not the suits that Sam had only ever seen him in.

"I'm sure that after this, Dean will decide that serving just one willingly will be a lot more sensible than getting used by everyone in this way." The tall man knelt down to catch Dean's face in his hand and force him to look up at him as the man raping Dean hastily paused in his thrusting. It was obvious to Sam that Drayton was the top dog here and was to be pandered to, even by his cronies. "Won't you, Dean? You'll behave yourself and give yourself willingly to me when I get you home, won't you? You won't even have to be chained like this, will you? Just accept me as your new master and it will be so much easier…"

"Sam's my master." His younger brother strained his ears to hear the whispered words, Dean's normally gravelly voice sounded totally wrecked due to the damage in his throat. "Always. You stealing me ain't gonna change that. Never will."

Sam's heart filled with pride and love. And worry. Dean sounded so exhausted and in so much pain. He had to get him out of here.

"We'll see about that, Dean. " Drayton was getting up and crossing to look at the screens. The guards sprang to immediate attention as he stood beside them, trying to make it seem that they had never taken their eyes off them, not once. "You do realise your brother's here, don't you? It seems he knows our royal little friend better than you think: he's accompanied him here. I must admit I was surprised to see them together."

Sam could hear Dean gasp and try to twist his body enough to see where Drayton was standing, even as the man inside him finally climaxed with a loud obnoxious grunt, pulling out almost immediately and collapsing with a happy sigh into a contented heap on the floor. While the other men were laughing at him, Sam was trying to ascertain the true state of Dean's back. There seemed to be less skin than there was blood, although the latter looked to have mostly dried already as it was already turning brown. But there was still _some_ fresh: vivid scarlet glistening in the light as his brother tried to take the chance to stretch his painful joints out before the next onslaught of bodies on his.

Sam's anxiety rose even higher, although the rational side of him said that even Drayton would never have allowed it to go that far in case Dean be scarred for life, and it probably looked far worse than it actually was. Oh God, Sam hoped it wasn't as bad as it looked.

He felt sick as two other men stepped up to where Dean was chained, undoing their pants ready for yet another go at him. But then Drayton was frowning and snarling at the guards sitting there. "Where is he? Where is Sam? Why isn't he on one of the screens?" At his raised voice, the men both paused, glanced at each other and moved hastily back. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't have taken having to see Dean being raped again while he was still desperately trying to think of a way to get him out of there.

"Where _is_ he?"

"He's there, sir. I'm _sure_ he is. I'll find him." The young guard sounded nervous. He fiddled frantically with the control deck, trying to find the young tall figure amongst the clear images of the prince's men.

"If you let him slip past you…"

"No, he's there, sir. I swear. We've been watching!" The young slave was frantic, hoping desperately to see his quarry amidst the numerous figures. The gunshot that abruptly splattered his brains across the controls echoed loudly through the bunker, startling them all into silence.

"Useless!" Drayton put his revolver away and turned to his brother and acquaintances. "Get him unchained! If Sam's already in here somewhere, then that little bastard won't be far behind."

"We're ready for him," his brother sneered even as he bent to unlock the chains from Dean's ankles. He wasn't quite as tall as his sibling, but he had the same unmistakeable cold eyes. "It's all ready to blow: he'll never know what hit him. Congratulations Dray, after today, you'll be the unopposed president of Pop's little group."

"Save it for when we're out of here. And watch out for the brother: he's a Hunter when all's said and done. Don't let his age fool you."

By this time, Elliott had Dean's neck also released from the heavy chain holding him to the ground and Drayton was crossing to pull him by his hair to a standing position. Dean wobbled where he stood but somehow remained on his feet. Drayton took a tight grip on the spreader bar that still secured his wrists and hands, and started to force him to move towards the rear of the bunker. "Time for you and I to take a ride! The rest of you know what to do."

The others nodded. "You get going: we've got your backs. This is gonna be fun….!"

For the first time Sam realised that they all now had weapons in their hands. And he was unnerved over the comment about 'something being ready to blow'. It would seem the prince had been correct: Drayton had not only known he would be coming to take back his prize, the bastard had been _counting_ on it….

But where was Drayton going? He, his brother Elliott and a still naked and bleeding Dean were heading towards a blank wall, and the rest of the men that had been in the room were going towards the other wall, not to the door where he was hidden. Then as the larger group of men and guards slipped through the seemingly invisible doorway and out of sight, he realised. This entire place had been designed not only for protection, but also defence. And it might _look_ like there was only one obvious and tempting way in and out in the shape of a large security door, but there were other, far less obvious ways in that meant the 'attackers' would instead quickly become the trapped.

What was going to 'blow'?

But even as he pondered this, he realised that Drayton was opening another barely visible door at the rear of the bunker: one that was letting a draught of cool air through and looked to be the start of a long tunnel. A tunnel that would lead far from whatever was about to happen when the prince and his men arrived. A tunnel that would take Dean far from his reach if he couldn't get across the room in time to stop the door from closing.

Drayton was through the doorway, Dean had been forced through it, Elliott was about to follow when Sam's bullet tore through his back and he fell on his face with the force, his slumped body stopping the door from swinging shut. Then Sam was sprinting forwards, desperate to get to Dean, shooting the last remaining guard who had still been sitting at the monitors, on his way.

Drayton turned in rage and shock, and anguish as he realised his brother was dead. Even as his left hand was snatching at Dean's arm to pull him backwards and down to the ground, he was taking aim at Sam with his own gun. He was a good shot: the bullet caught Sam in his left arm and went through, knocking him off his stride momentarily as the pain surged through him. He recovered and came on, throwing himself aside even as the next shot flashed past where his heart would have been.

For a moment he was openly vulnerable as Drayton stepped back through the doorway and took deliberate aim at him while he was still getting up from when he had landed. He could see the man's finger start to pull the trigger and knew that he was still too far a distance away to stop him even if he launched himself physically at him. For an instant, Sam stared death straight in the face.

Then he was gasping in relief as Dean had managed to get to his feet in the tunnel and used his whole body to slam Drayton against the concrete wall of the bunker. The bullet went wide. Both other men stumbled and fell even as Sam got to his feet: Dean still hampered by the bar restraining his hands, but luckily falling on his tormentor rather than the solid unforgiving concrete. He rolled off and away from Drayton quickly, but couldn't restrain the groan of pain as both his back and abused shoulders connected with the cold hard surface.

Even as Drayton tried to raise his weapon again, Sam was kicking it away and out of his reach. He stood over the other man with his own gun aimed directly at his head. "Dean? You okay?" He didn't turn away from his target but he had to ask. He had to make sure.

"Been better." It was barely more than a grunt.

Sam stared down at Drayton. "You fucking sick bastard."

"You've killed my brother, Sam. You're going to pay for that." The grey eyes glinted evilly. "You should have just accepted my offer and not got involved."

"You've abused and raped _my_ brother." Sam retorted. "Now it's time for _you_ to pay."

He pulled the trigger.

Just as the sound of an explosion from outside followed by immediate machine gun fire echoed through the interior of the bunker. Sam was startled enough for the shot to nick Drayton's ear. Before he could recover himself enough to aim again, Drayton was on him.

It was rare that Sam had to fight someone the same size as him. He was used to dirty fighters, like his brother who knew and would throw just about every trick in the book, but still Sam was used to defending himself from upwardly-aimed blows and to striking downwards. But Drayton was the same height as him, and even though probably twenty years older, impressively fit and strong. Worryingly fit and strong: he was more than a match for Sam. And he had just seen Sam kill _his_ brother.

If there was one thing Sam _could_ understand it was the intense hatred and strength born from the desire for revenge. He found himself getting knocked off his feet, then knocked down again. And Drayton had managed to get to his gun….

It was eerily similar to just a few moments before. Sam trying to get up and out of the way in time as Drayton took aim. This time he wouldn't miss.

Sam took a breath and waited for the end.

But the gun was never fired as again Dean was getting up. Somehow, Sam couldn't even start to imagine how, he had managed to twist and bend enough to get his legs and body through the space formed by his manacled, restrained wrists and his arms, probably all but forcing his shoulders out of their sockets with the effort. But he had now got his hands, still attached to the spreader bar, in front of him.

Which was all he needed.

The solid bar was over Drayton's head and pulling against his neck before the older man could react. He fell backwards as Dean's weight caught him off-balance and they both crashed to the floor. But this time it wasn't luck that Drayton was on the bottom: Dean had turned the both of them as they fell until he had landed intentionally with his knees on the back of Drayton's neck with all the force he could while tugging upwards as hard as he could manage with his wrists, forcing the unyielding metal against his tormentor's windpipe. There was no way he was going to let the man escape from this. Not after the last few hours.

Drayton gasped momentarily, tried to push him off or pull the bar away, but to no avail.

In a couple of minutes it was all over.

Dean felt he was going to collapse himself even as Drayton's body went limp beneath his. He was just so tired, and every single part of him _hurt_. Too much hurt. He felt his mind going blank and his vision beginning to darken.

Then there was a strong arm around his shoulders and he seriously felt that he could cry as Sam was trying to get the body out from where it was now jammed between his wrists and the bar. "I've got you, Dean. It's okay. We're gonna get out of here."

Even as Sam managed to pull his brother back and away from the dead man, he could see Dean's body starting to shut down from shock, loss of blood and total exhaustion. And cold. He could feel him shivering. Desperately Sam looked around the bunker: surely there was something he could use… the blanket that had been used as padding to stop Dean's ribs from breaking and crushing him to death beneath the bodyweight of his abusive torturers: that would do.

And there were some bottles of water there as well.

Quickly Sam ran across to grab some, and the blanket up from the bench, returning to wrap it around his brother's shoulders, holding it in place and trying to rub some warmth into him even as he tried to make his brother move. "Come on, we've got to get out of here."

He felt worry race through him as Dean could hardly find the strength to stand now the adrenaline of the fight was wearing off. He held out his wrists meekly. "He must have the key." His voice was now so rough that Sam could hardly make it out.

Quickly he opened one of the bottles and helped Dean drink before he hastily searched Drayton's pockets, remembering that Elliott had handed them to his brother once he had finished unlocking Dean from the chains. He was relieved when he found the bunch of keys that had been used to lock his brother into the slave bands back at the motel. It had only been the previous day, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. He knew they shouldn't be wasting time, but he just wanted to get the fucking things off Dean and to let him at least _feel_ free from the restricting and unforgiving metal rings.

And indeed his brother did sigh with relief when they were undone, although Sam was wincing once more at the rubbed and bloody sores that clearly marked their recent presence on his neck and all four limbs. "Come on. Lean on me."

He was aware now of all the noise from outside the bunker. Gunfire. More explosions, although nothing as big as that first one. Shouts and screams. And it was coming closer. "Come on, Dean. We've got to get out of here!"

They were halfway back to the steel door when they heard the first footsteps coming down the steps. Sam looked around hastily and hurried to try and take cover beneath the desks in front of the screens just as two of the men who had previously been raping his brother appeared in the doorway. They stopped in horror at the sight of Drayton's body at the rear of the room. "Shit!"

They already had their guns in their hands even as they were advancing further into the room. Sam raised his own revolver ready, but was alarmed as he suddenly felt Dean slump against him. His instinctive response to turn and check if his brother was still conscious alerted the two men to their location. Sam swore under his breath: he didn't dare shoot at them, not without risking Dean getting hit in what would be definite retaliation.

"Hands where we can see them, boy."

The two men advanced on him with unpleasant smirks on their faces. "Well, look what we have. Our favourite pleasure slave. And a little appetiser! Finders keepers: let's go, boy."

Sam angrily began to get to his feet. Could he dare get to them before one of them shot him? No way was he going to let anyone else take his brother. He steeled himself ready to at least try and jump at them.

Two shots rang out and both the men fell dead with surprised looks on their faces.

Almost as surprised as Sam felt as he turned hurriedly to face what or whoever else was coming next through that door. It was with disbelief that he recognised Hamill hurrying in.

"You've got to go! The moment you went, the prince gave orders for no one but Dean to be brought out alive! No other survivors! He's not going to let you live, Sam. His men are already on their way in! Go on, get out of here!"

"Wha…Shammy?"

Sam hurried to try and help Dean back to his feet. His brother could hardly stand now: he was so cold and so very tired. Sam tried to wrap the blanket closer around him in desperation.

"What was that explosion?"

"Bastard was ready for us. As the prince's men stormed the perimeter, he let them get in so far, then he had hidden a load of remotely controlled mines beneath the grass out there. Killed a lot of our side immediately: it's carnage out there! Both sides are set to annihilate the other completely! Is that a way out? Where does it go?"

He had seen the door at the end of the room, still jammed open by Elliott's body.

"I don't know, but he was taking Dean down the tunnel."

"Go!" The agent was pushing them in that direction. "I turned the tracker off again: you can't be followed. And I called Ford: told him I was following a hunch and for him to send reinforcements. This place is going to be crawling with FBVS, FBI, you nameit, any minute. They'll get these bastards, Sam. You and your brother will be safe after. But just get going!"

"Come with us! You're not safe here, either!" Sam had Dean nearly to the entrance to the tunnel: his brother was stumbling but determined to keep going.

"I'll close the door and tell the prince you weren't here."

"You don't get it!" Sam turned in desperation. "No other survivors! That includes you! Come on!"

He could see Hamill's face as the older man thought about it. He saw when the agent suddenly registered what Sam was trying to warn him about.

It was exactly at the same moment as the first bullet screamed through his thigh as one of the prince's men began to enter the room. Sam locked eyes with him as the agent fell: he daren't go back and try to help. Dean was his priority. But he so wished he could.

Hamill was twisting on his now useless leg and killing the man who had shot him. "Go!" he yelled frantically at Sam as he heard others on their way down the steps. Sam leant Dean against the wall in the tunnel and frantically hauled Elliott's body out of the way to allow the barely noticeable door to close behind them.

Just as it finally did, they heard the flurry of shots ring out from the other side….

Sam grabbed for his brother and hurried him down the tunnel. He could feel his arm and the blanket getting sticky with blood, but it seemed to be thick and cloggy rather than fresh and dripping. He hoped it was: he daren't stop to check but the thought that Dean might be bleeding to death even as they escaped was too unbearable. "You okay?"

"Hurts, Sam."

"Just hold on. Nearly there."

"Nearly _where?_ "

"I don't know. Just keep going, Dean. _Please_. Just keep going for me."

"Always for you."

The tunnel seemed to stretch for miles, but they actually came out into an open area only a few hundred yards behind the buildings. Sam knew he shouldn't be surprised to see a four-seater helicopter there, waiting ready to be used as a quick getaway.

"Where's the pilot?" Sam was going for his gun, ready to fight their way out yet again.

"Drayton flies it himself." Dean murmured at him. "Damn thing's more scary than a plane."

"You been up in it?"

"Oh yeah, lots."

Sam shook his head: this wasn't the time for questions like that. Behind them, by the buildings, he could still hear the crackle of a lot of gunfire and see flames and smoke from newly created fires. And in the distance, he could also hear sirens. There were going to be no winners here today.

He hauled his brother's arm further over his shoulder and gripped his waist tighter so he could try and take more of his weight. "Come on. If I'm right, as long as we can get over there without being seen, we should be able to get through the fence. Then we can work our way back to the Impala. You just hold on, I'm going to take care of you. Not too much longer now."

It took far longer than he'd hoped but at least they managed to avoid anyone from either side. Sam was nearly tempted to try and carry Dean now, because his poor brother had nothing at all on his feet and he was forcing him to try and scramble through tree roots and harsh scrub. Although Dean was having cause to swear and cuss beneath his breath with every step, it was better than to risk following the more open track that Sam had parked down when they had arrived. For once he was grateful for Dean's stubbornness: his brother might have to spend the next week laid up from sheer exhaustion and bloody feet, but he was determined to get back to his Baby.

They were close enough to see the Impala and risked coming out for the final fifty or so yards on the track. Sam fumbled for the keys in his pocket then remembered that he had left them in there when he had been dragged out of it earlier. It came as a nasty shock when there was a 'click' from behind them and Sam turned in response. Only to find himself staring down the barrel of yet another revolver.

This time held in the steady hands of the prince.

He knew what he was doing: he stood far enough away that Sam could do nothing to stop him. The prince would have fired before he could have reached him. Dean sighed and all but collapsed where he stood.

Sam moved to catch him before he fell, but to his surprise the prince got there first: wrapping his arms around Dean, the gun still in his hand, and letting him use his own body as support.

"What has that bastard done to you? He had better be dead."

"He is" Dean responded wearily. "I killed him."

It was a genuine smile that lit the dark brown eyes. "Good. I'm proud of you."

"You're not taking him." But Sam knew inside himself how this was going down: this was all just words now.

"You did well, Samuel. I am impressed. _Really._ And you're correct: I'm _not_ taking him. Not just now." And with that, he was putting the gun away and holding his hand up openly as if to show somebody that he was doing so. But he didn't let go of Dean.

Sam stared, then realised. "They're still watching, aren't they? Others from the AE? And if you grab Dean from me now then that would undermine your position with them."

"Precisely, Samuel. I admit I was hoping that you wouldn't return, but you did. And we're standing out in the open where they could see me if I shoot you. But well done for surviving: I'll know not to underestimate you next time. And there will _be_ a next time. But today you get to keep Dean, and I'm looking magnanimous in my defeat in front of my brethren. Besides, I need time to organise the AE how I want: it'll take time and I would _hate_ my gorgeous man to be lonely in the meantime…."

The prince turned and gestured to someone out of the brothers' view. Then they heard the roar of one of the four by fours and watched as it appeared from around the corner with Nine-twenty behind the wheel. He pulled up beside the prince and opened the door for him. "We should leave, Highness."

He was right: they could all clearly hear the wail of numerous sirens approaching. The prince kissed Dean on his cheek and reluctantly released him back into his brother's care. "You take good care of him for me, Sam: he looks exhausted."

Then he stepped into the truck and it immediately sped away, raising a cloud of dust over the brothers as a farewell gesture.

"Time we went as well, Dean. Just got to get to the car: come on, last push now. It's nearly over. You're nearly home."


	25. Afterwards

AFTERWARDS

Sam unwrapped himself from the blanket with a great deal of reluctance and carefully tried to stretch his long body out without waking his brother. The back of the Impala was hardly enough room for one grown man to sleep in, let alone two. He felt as if he had been folded against normal human capability in at least four different joints in his body.

They had tried to get out of the area the previous evening, but the explosions, gunfire and resulting carnage had resulted in so many sirens from all directions and so many alert eyes that in the end Sam had taken the decision to drive the car off the main road and down yet another dirt track, looking for anywhere to hide. Eventually the only thing he could find aside from sparse scrub and rocks was a few more trees, so he gave up and drove right in beneath their protective branches, all too aware of the rough ground against the wheels of his brother's most treasured possession, and parked it as deep into them as he felt he could safely get. Then he had grabbed the knife and slid out of the driver's door to quickly hack down a couple of branches to try and cover their tracks and the rear of the Impala.

Then all he had to grab was the medical kit and Dean's bag, and bring them and his brother into the rear of the car where at least he could start to try and assess his injuries. Hospital was out of the question in any event: he just hoped there was nothing that he couldn't deal with himself.

But of course Dean had been more worried about the blood still spilling on _Sam's_ arm where he had been shot and insisted on checking that first. Sam had sighed and removed his shirt, knowing it was easier that way. Luckily the bullet had passed straight through without doing too much actual damage on the way: it would heal given rest and enough time. Sam sat and studied Dean's face as he carefully stitched the entry and exit wounds: his brother looked exhausted and was obviously in a lot of pain. Gently he leant forward to kiss him.

Dean turned his face away. "You don't want to do that, Sam. Not for a long time." His voice was still rough and rasping, but at least it sounded a little better after the cooling bottles of water.

Sam put his right hand up and caught his brother's cheek, careful not to grip too hard. "I'll _always_ want to kiss you." And he proved it, licking tenderly into his brother's mouth until he could taste _him_ again.

Then he could feel moisture running down beside his fingers as Dean began to cry. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe now."

"No. I… I'm sorry I couldn't stop them, Sammy."

Sam paused from kissing him and gently pressed their foreheads together: " _I'm_ sorry I couldn't protect you. That's my job, after all."

"No, I should look after _you!_ "

Sam couldn't help his dimples from appearing as he wrapped his arms fully around the smaller man: Dean would always be his big brother no matter what.

"You done stitching me? I want to check _you_ over!"

The answer was a grunt: "Almost."

Only once he had been satisfied did he let Sam slip the blanket from around his bare shoulders and allow his to examine the open but drying wounds on his back.

Sam felt immense relief: "They haven't gone too deep: they should heal okay. You were lucky."

Another grunt: "Drayton's a master with those whips. He won't risk letting anyone else use them on me: he knows exactly how hard he can strike. Fucking hurts though."

Sam kissed the back of his neck. "He'll never hurt you again."

Dean sounded surprised. "No. No, he won't. He's gone, hasn't he, Sam?" There was wonder in his voice. For the first time Sam realised what the pressure of always being watched; of always being afraid every time he saw the man; wondering what he would be forced to do or have done to him; what that must have actually been like for his brother. He must have lived with so much fear and so much worry for so long. And now it was over. At least where Drayton was concerned.

One bastard down, one to go.

Dean sighed and rested his head against the back of the seat as Sam gently began to wipe away the dried blood and began to bandage his torso tightly. He couldn't do much about the bruises that Dean was covered in over the rest of him: the men had obviously enjoyed hurting him, but such was the authority of the now dead bastard and his obsessive possessiveness over his slave that it meant none of them had dared to go too far. Dean would hurt for a few weeks, but eventually recover. Sam climbed over him so he could kiss every single one of the darkening areas, claiming his brother's body back for himself, and openly letting Dean know he was still very much wanted.

"I heard what you said. About always being mine."

He felt Dean's eyes on him: "It's the truth."

This time he didn't turn away as Sam moved to kiss his lips. "Sam?"

"Yes, big brother?"

"Will you take the rest of it away as well? I don't want the memories of today."

Sam broke the kiss and looked into his eyes. "You sure, Dean? I don't want to hurt you."

"Please?"

Sam nodded and reached for him. They were sitting ducks if their hiding place got noticed anyway. And the only thing that had mattered to him at that moment was his brother.

Which was why Sam was now unwrapping _his_ long and completely naked body from around his brother's smaller naked body and untangling himself from the blanket that he had wound round them both when they had finally settled down to try and sleep...

They had crossed the final line left between them. He had understood immediately why Dean had asked for him to do so. His brother had wanted Sam to replace the bad memories of the last twenty four or so hours with a good one: he'd wanted to be close to the body that he was beginning to know as well as his own, to feel Sam's strong arms around him. To know he was securely back in his master, brother, lover's embrace where he belonged. Where he felt safe.

Where he knew he was loved.

Dean had needed Sam like Sam needed Dean. And knowing that he hadn't forced Dean into anything was a huge relief for Sam, because he would have hated himself for ever if he thought he had. As it was, he had made love to his brother with far more gentle tenderness that he had ever done to anyone before, all too aware of how much in pain his brother must have been.

And it had been absolutely incredible.

Even squashed as they had been in the back of the Impala.

For the last few months, ever since he had found out the truth about Dean, Sam' emotions had felt as off-balance as if he had stepped onto a tightrope stretched high above an abyss; one false step and he would fall. The only safe movement would be to move backwards, but he couldn't turn to see what he would be stepping back onto, whether it _was_ safe ground or something to be run from.

But he hadn't wanted to: he had continued wobbling forwards, because he knew his brother was on the other side of the crevasse….

And last night in the car, with all the emotions and pain and fear of loss, it felt to him as if Dean had himself finally stepped onto the wire to meet Sam, holding out his hands in something far more than just support. Although Dean could still try and turn back to get back to safety…Sam supposed _he_ could as well if he wanted to….

They would have to wait and see if they fell together, each returned to where they had been….or if just one of them fell alone.

Gently Sam leant forward to rub his nose against Dean's, adjusting his angle as the other man stirred in his sleep to bring their lips together in a gentle but loving kiss. It woke Dean fully and he blinked sleepily up at his brother.

"Good morning." Sam smiled as he stared down into the crystal-clear waters of his brother's shining green eyes, and knew that there was no way _he_ would be stepping back.

"Mornin'." Dean rubbed at them oblivious of how he was ruining the effect as his voice came out as a sore-sounding croak. He coughed as he tried to clear it. "Have we any more water?"

"There's some left in the front seat. And still some potato chips if you can bear them on your throat, How are you feeling?"

"Like shit. But I'll live. We'd better try and get moving."

Sam nodded reluctantly: "You just get dressed, I'd brought your bag of clothes into the front, then you go back to sleep if you want. I'll go and clear the branches." But he had to kiss Dean again before he got dressed just because. And the way it was returned….

For the first time since before Dean had come to fetch him from Stanford, Sam felt hopeful about the future. They were going to catch and destroy the yellow-eyed bastard then perhaps Sam would go back to College, perhaps he wouldn't. But either way, Dean was going to be there with him. Either as a brother or as a lover: Sam would just have to wait and see whether Dean felt the same as he did.

But it was going to be okay.

Just as long as they were together.

Reluctantly, he got out of the car and cleared the way, hoping that he hadn't snagged the bottom of the car on anything that would damage it as he reversed. Dean also struggled out to go and relieve himself, stumbling a little as he did.

"Shit, just take it steady, Dean. We'll find somewhere to lay up and just let you rest for a while. No jobs for at least a week."

"That sounds good, Sammy." And his brother did sound really grateful.

Sam got behind the wheel and tried not to wince at the pain through his arm, but Dean had noticed it anyway. "You okay to drive?"

"I'm fine. You sure you don't want to just settle down in the back again? You really do look rough."

His brother grunted: "Been better," he admitted. "But then again, I've been a lot worse. I…erm…" His face suddenly flushed bright red. "Were _you_ okay last night, Sammy? I know you were trying to look after me, and… nobody's _ever_ worried about me like you do and it was amazing. But….were you okay? Was it alright for you? I mean, I won't break. And you can do anything you want to me: I'd…I don't want you to misunderstand me if I say I'd let you, because I'm not meaning it that you'd order me 'cos I know you wouldn't….but I'd _like_ you to. I'd like to make you happy, keep you pleased with me….Fuck, I'm bad at this."

His mumbled words were cut off as Sam leant over, pulled him across the front seat to be closer to him and kissed him on the mouth. "I want you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"I love you. And , once you're better, we're going to spend some time exploring our….erm, hopes, erm…what I like in bed, what _you_ like. Believe me: I've got lots of things that I want to try with you, Dean." He smirked mischievously as his brother's eyebrows rose and decided that there was still time for yet another last kiss. "But _you're_ gonna tell me what you don't like. I _mean_ it, Dean. If you want to make _me_ happy and pleased with you, then you'll tell me what _you're not_ happy with _,_ okay?"

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, Sam."

"I mean it. _I'm_ not going to enjoy myself if I think _you're_ not. That's important to me, _you're_ important to me. You really _are_." He added with a third kiss that turned into a fourth, fifth and sixth as his brother snorted and flashed him a disbelieving glance.

Sam finally forced himself to get back to the subject of getting out of the area and went to start the engine .

"Oh, I forgot," he fished in his pocket. "There's your wallet. I know how attached you are to that old thing. And your jacket's in the back, you had dad's journal in it, didn't you?"

"Thanks Sammy."

He thought he must have misheard how emotional Dean had momentarily sounded just then, but his brother was turning his head away to stare out of the window. Carefully Sam reversed the Impala out of their hiding place with the intention of heading to anywhere that wasn't there. He drove steadily, trying not to give the impression to any of the numerous marked and unmarked official cars still around that they had been anywhere near the events of the previous day.

They ended up driving for a long time until they were well away from there, not even risking a rest for a proper meal. Sam was hungry enough and he at least managed to grab some snacks the previous day: he wondered if Dean had been even allowed to eat at all when he had been taken. Eventually though, they both felt safe enough to try and find somewhere, and Dean had felt better enough to insist on doing some of the driving.

"There's a Sunnyside." he pointed the sign out with pleasure and pulled in. "Get me extra onions."

Sam made a face: "Dude, I'm the one who's got to be in the car with you when you've _had_ your extra onions!"

"And pie! Get me pie!"

Dean watched his brother enter the small diner and sat back to listen to the radio, frowning as it suddenly began to stutter and crackle. Then he looked back at the diner and realised there was no longer any movement in it.

Grabbing for his gun he struggled out of the Impala and hurried inside, but he was too late.

Everyone else was dead.

Sam had gone.

And the stench of sulphur hung in the air.


	26. The Deal

THE DEAL

Sam sat quietly. Not because he wanted to be quiet. But because he couldn't, he didn't _..._ what could he say? What could he possibly say that could make any sense whatsoever of…this? His head was spinning with the shock of realisation. Dean only had a year left to live. He had sold his life, no, worse than that: he had sold his _soul_ this time, for Sam's. They only had one more year together.

Less now. Only three hundred and sixty something days. Only three hundred and sixty something nights. Until he died a terrible, violent death and went to Hell for eternity. Sam felt a tear break through and begin to slide down his face. How was he going to survive without his brother?

No. How could he possibly survive without the man that he so deeply loved beside his side? How was he going to even begin to face life after?

"How could you make a deal like that, Dean?"

Bobby had lost count of the amount of times Sam had asked that question. Hell, he had lost count of the number of times _he_ had asked that question. What had the idgit been thinking?

Then he sighed. Because he _knew_ what Dean had been thinking. But he wished, he so wished he hadn't.

"There's got to be some way of breaking it."

"It's done, Sam." Dean was getting irritated.

"Then we'll undo it!"

"Then they take _you_ instead. And I'm telling you now: ain't no way! No way, Sammy! You let it go, you hear?" He was standing now, almost shouting at Sam who was biting his lip, trying to stop the rest of the tears from showing.

Then as suddenly as Dean's temper had arisen, it was gone again and he was kneeling on the floor in front of Sam and catching his face in his hands. "Listen to me, Sam. It's okay. It's okay. We killed the demon. We saved dad: we both saw him escape Hell. And he gave me two more years of life than I should have had, Sam. It was my time to go in that crash, you know that's the truth. I'll have had two more years than I should have done. That's a bonus, Sam. So, it's okay."

"It's not okay, Dean." Now the tears were coming. "How am I going to live without you?"

His big brother smiled and leant forward to hug him. "You'll be fine, Sam. You managed to before for years. You're gonna go back to College. That lien works both ways: claim the rest of your scholarship. Go and become a hotshot lawyer. Live your normal life. Find your white picket fence. Nothing to keep you on the road with me now….unless you want to. But…"

"But?"

"Will you do something for me Sam? Or you, Bobby? If it's not too much to ask."

"Anything, son. You know that, anything."

Dean paused. He didn't want to upset them anymore, but this was something he'd always dreamed of….

"Once….once they've come for me. Once it's over. Will you find my chip and cut it out? It's somewhere under my spinal cord, I'm not sure where. That's the idea, I suppose. But, I'd like to know that I'm… free. Even if it's only in death. Would you cut it out before you burn my remains?"

"Dean!" And his little brother was going, dissolving into distraught tears. And Dean could only hold him as he cried. And he was watching Bobby rub at his eyes with his hands. And he knew he'd let them down yet again, but he didn't know what else he could have done.

There was _nothing_ else he could have done.

His life for Sammy's.

Simplest deal ever.

Then Sam was pulling away from him, out of his arms, and his expression was becoming cold and….eerily like their dad's had been for most of their lives when he had been driven by his obsession for revenge. What could Sam possibly be getting obsessed by?

"We're going to break this deal."

"I told you, Sam…"

"I don't _care_ what you told me, Dean. And I don't care what you _say_. We're going to break this deal." He got up from the sofa and stared down at him. " _I'm_ going to break this deal. I'm _not_ losing you."

And with that he was striding across the room, pulling down book after book to look for any information that might be of use. And Bobby was sighing, signalling to Dean to give his brother some time, and crossing to sit at the table to take the musty smelling tomes from Sam. Dean watched them both for a moment then left the room, heading out for the yard and the fresh air of nearly perhaps being free.

Behind him, Bobby and Sam stopped their pretence of searching through the pages and stared at each other. "What am I going to do, Bobby?" Sam whispered to the old man. "What am I going to _do_?"

But for once Bobby had no answer.

Dean wandered outside for a while, then headed for the only place he'd _ever_ felt was home. He sat in the driving seat of his Baby and all but drank in the smell of her interior: leather, gun oil, whisky, the iron tang of stale blood, the whiff of stale sweat, aromas reaped from many women and the occasional man, the slightest hint of old hamburgers: _home_.

With a sigh he delved into his inner pocket and pulled out his wallet. He could have cried when Sam had returned it to him: he was so grateful that his brother had thought to pick it up when he had left that last motel room in such a hurry.

Now he opened it and delved with his finger into the lining of the leather that he had split purposely the moment he had purchased it. He had never told anyone of this; never shown anyone the photo that he was now pulling out. He had been about to show Sam when the abduction had happened: now he knew it was too late.

If he told Sam now, his brother would be back desperately trying to hack the National Archives: his disappointment that Ash hadn't managed to before he had been killed had been written all over his face when told the news of the events at the Roadhouse. Although _Dean_ knew that Ash had _never_ been looking: the threat of having extreme violence done to him by the elder Winchester if he did, had been enough to make him decide not to bother.

Now though he pulled out the photo and stared at it. It was so old and so creased and he had had to leave it to dry out more than once. But the figures were still clear if somewhat faded in places. He could even remember the day he had been given it….

He had been watching the outside world through the blinds of the windows. Mary was packing the house up, ready for the imminent move to Lawrence, and he was supposed to be out of sight because of the awkward questions that might ensue if the Winchester's suddenly had a son.

Dean had recognised her immediately as he saw her approach the house: she had been one of the other buyers at the auction, the lady that was part of the more senior couple. She seemed nervous and hesitant, as if unsure that she should be there. Carefully he had slipped past Mary while she was preoccupied in wrapping the glassware and gone to the front door. He knew he wasn't allowed to go outside, but he carefully opened it and stayed inside the screen door. Waiting.

Hoping.

She saw him. Smiled and finally got her courage up to walk up to the porch. Carefully she knelt on the outside of the gauze, close enough to whisper to the child inside.

"I see you're moving on. So are we. It's easier, stops most of the questions. They're going to be alright. We'll make sure they're safe, treat them well. They miss you though so I thought you might like this." The photo was slid beneath the screen door. "I'll make sure they never forget you. I promise. Perhaps one day, fate will let you be together again one day. God bless you, boy, and may angels always watch over you."

And with that she had gone. Dean had never seen her again, although he had looked all his life. He had checked every record of every inhabitant of that small town but to no avail. And he'd watched for her face, as well as for the ones in the picture, in every crowd, in every town, in every place he went. He knew he probably always would until the day he died. But that was all he could do now. It was too late. It was all too late.

He smoothed out the photo as best he could and stared at the faces of the three people in it. Three children, all smiling shyly at the camera. The one to the right he didn't know: he presumed she was an elder child of the family.

But the other two hurt at his memory, caused tears to fill his eyes. He had hoped to find them. Prayed so many times that one day he could. But even if he did now, then how could he tell them who he was? How could he introduce himself one minute, knowing he was going to be dead the next?

Dean's tears finally began to fall as he stared at the photo. Tears for himself and how terrified he really was, even though he would always try his best to hide it. Tears that he had let Sam down as usual. Tears for the two children in the photo that he had missed every single day of his life and now would never meet again.

His baby brother, Billy.

His twin sister, Devon.

He was never going to be able to find them.

THE END?


End file.
